Nostalgia in a Small Café
by Otterberries
Summary: Who would have believed that a sketchbook on potato mutilations would cause Canada, the forgotten, and Romano, the inferior, to come closer together.  RomanoxCanada Romanada with hinted other pairings, both Romano & Canada's PoV. Rated M for language.
1. Actually Noticed

**Title: **Nostalgia in a Small Café

**Disclaimer:** I own a Keyblade made of cardboard, but not Hetalia.

**Warnings for this Ch:** Vulgar humor, language, drug references, passive-aggressive Canada, human and nation names used, France, the awesomeness that emits from crack pairings

**Main Pairing:** Romano x Canada (How would you write that, RomaCan? Canmano sounds better)

**Side Pairings:** GerIta, Spain x Austria, PruHun, FrUk, RusAme, GiriPan, probably more later on

**A.N.:** This originally was going to be a one-shot friendship, but shit happens, and now you get a multiple chapter romance, yay.~ I will do my best to update once a week on the weekend, but my computer access is limited. How many chapters this will be is classified information.  
>About the name usage, I believe that nations use their human names only if they are really close, such as siblings or in a relationship, or if they are in public. Also I am using the Prussia became East Germany theory.<br>I may write lemon later on if enough people want it, thus the rating is subject to change. Another thing that may up the rating is future drug and alcohol usage. Because everything is funny when you're high or smashed.

Done rambling, enjoy~

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><p>Chapter I: <em>Actually Noticed, Would you Like a Side of Apocalypse With That?<em>

Canada's Point of View

It was just another week-long world meeting between the nations on the top floor of the UN building in New York, New York (America and his redundancy), US of A. Today, being day four, means that no one gives a shit anymore. Except Germany. Thus, the meeting is eventful, but productive?

"Get your bloody hand off my arse, Frog!"

About as productive as a pastaless Italian soldier.

"Hahaha, Iggy, looks like— " America began to commentate until…

"France, remove yourself from England at once," a dictionary definition of an Aryan man, Italian glued to his arm included, sternly ordered the blond Frenchman attempting to rape/ show l'amour and cutting off the main reason painkillers were made. Thank god for multi-tasking.

Cutting off (the theme of the day) his friend's dramatic to-be speech on love, an albino spoke up. "Kesesese, West, you're only jealous that England is getting some action. You could as well, but they would have to remove that stick first. I wonder how Italy does it." Thus, a fight between the two halves of Germany erupted and the productivity level dropped to the amount of American flags England has embroidered.

Due to World War IV going on (WW III happened two years ago when Spain and England reverted to their pirate days during a game of Battleship) no one noticed the pseudo-ghost sneak into the conference room, late. He took a seat at the only open spot left, muttering to himself that at least they were fighting and did not notice his blunder. On his right was a sleeping Greece, probably dreaming about Japan in cat ears, which would explain those questionable noises he was making. Canada looked to his left to see Spain's temperamental ex-henchman (call him that and you will wind up at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea with a pair of cement shoes) whom was sketching in a sketchbook, shocker with the usage of the book. Usually he is playing catch with other people's faces and the sketchbook is the ball.

Canada gave an exhausted sigh, no one noticed him, but it was ok… who was he kidding? It hurt like a body check into the board wall when the other nations looked right through him. What is so interesting about the air behind him?

After another half-hour of fighting and five broken chairs, two black eyes, and one East German with a duct-taped mouth did the meeting resume; Canada making a mental note to ask England for the notes to the other countries whom he missed.

Up next was Sweden, but the only people who can understand what the dancing maple leaf he was saying are the Nordics… _probably something on IKEA_, Canada annotated in his head. Placing his head into his palm, Canada decided to be snoopy (being invisible does have its perks), and peered over to what Romano was sketching as a sleeping Greece is as interesting as socks for Christmas. It was a pencil sketch of a potato with a firecracker sticking out of the top with the fuse about to be lit…

Canada was trying to understand just what he was looking at when a "What are you staring at, bastard" broke his concentration. Snapping out of his trance, startled indigo met probably permanently pissed (_AN:_ try saying that five times really fast) amber.

"E-Eh, nothing, sorry." Canada backed up in his seat as to not piss Romano off even more and set off an Italian wrath that can make Poland's little ponies cry.

Romano glared at Canada for another second. "Whatever bastard," and went back to his spudcracker. Hong Kong would be proud, on the inside, of course. Canada sighed in relief and decided to try to cut down on the dangerous things he did and pay attention to the boredom in meeting form.

After Sweden came Alfred, who immediately started talking boisterously about his heroic new idea of making a new energy source from hamburgers. "If only you could harness the bullshit that comes out of his mouth, then we would not have to worry about an energy crisis again," Canada muttered to himself.

A snort to Canada's left startled him, again. "If your brother started spewing out more bullshit, then we would need to start building a motherfucking arc." Canada looked to his left to see a slightly frowning (but that is just his face) Romano looking at him, not through him. _Holy maple-shit in a bottle, someone actually noticed me without me doing anything to try to get their attention._

Romano gave him a What the Fuck stare/glare. "I sa-said that out loud, didn't I?" Canada asked with his whispery voice.

"No shit." Replied the Mediterranean nation. Canada was use to this type of language as hockey fans, himself included, can get pretty rowdy at games when the players mess up. But the language was not what intrigued Canada, it was Romano's eyes. They were not the default pissed they usually are, but more calculating? _Probably trying to remember who I am…_

Determined to not let this chance for nation contact, Canada decided trying the suicidal task of starting a conversation with Southern Italian, respect to the current speaker be damned. "So, ah, Romano, w-what were you drawing, eh?"

That 'I just found my brother fucking Germany' look came back, but its power was reduced by the small blush that adorned his cheeks. _Kind of looks like a maple leaf in the fall_, Canada noted.

"None of your fucking business Maple Bastard," and he turned away from the arctic nation, closing his sketchbook in the process. Even though he looked angry, he did not say this with a burning hatred, more like an ember of hatred. Canada sighed at not having his wet dream of having a simple conversation with someone fulfilled.

The rest of the morning portion of the meeting consisted of Canada estimating how much furniture Kumachica, no, it is Kumashima… Kuma will chew up for being left back home and half listening to the speakers yet still getting the jest of what they were saying, a useful skill he picked up from having to deal with a motor-mouth brother. _Just give a simple nod here, or a yes there… Unless he says that American Football is better than hockey, then you grab your hockey stick and smack that mother- Bad thought bad thoughts,_ Canada remained himself, feeling as he did during the War of 1812. During his little internal civil-war, Canada did not notice that Germany finally released the nations for lunch time like a whole bunch of five year olds, reminding them that the meeting begins again at 14:00 (2:00pm) sharp. Add an hour to that for America, the host, to show up from McDonalds.

All the nations were filing out, causing the infamous Bulge to form (as it does every time) from the large number of nations all trying to escape out the one, too small, doorway at the same time, being too lazy to open another door. Canada gathered his papers while he waited for the Bulge to die out; he learned from previous experience that trying to work his way through it results in Matthew-pancakes due to the other nations not noticing his presence. While gathering his real notes and self-notes on the differences between using a piece of cardboard for sledding versus an actual plastic sled, he noticed a red notebook with the doodle of a scowling tomato on the front. Canada took a wild guess at assuming it was Romano's sketchbook, and his papers near it, but who cared about those?

Like the curious hoser he is, he picked up the sketchbook and began penning through it. _God, I feel like Alfred now, invading peoples personal space._ The first page had writing, but it was in Italian and Canada never bothered to learn the language despite Italians being the 5th largest ethnic group in his country. There were only three pages with drawings on them, the rest being blank. On each page was a cartoon of a potato being… mutilated? _Did I accidently mix up the flour and cocaine again for those pancakes this morning?_

Once consisted of a Rube Goldberg like device, the other was… _is that a massive flyswatter?_ The third is the spudamite from earlier. Overall, it was pretty amusing. The whole world knows Romano hates potatoes with a passion that can rival all the Spanish put together with how he constantly calls Germany a 'spud-fucker' or, more commonly, 'Potato Bastard,' but going so far as to make this?

Looking around the room to see if he can spot that infamous hair curl of the dark chestnut variety, Canada's search came up fruitless. He put the journal and papers in his satchel, or man-purse as Alfred calls it, and started to head out to his favorite café around the block, early August sun streaming through the windows to his back.

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><p>That bulge scene needs to become canon.<p>

Got the idea for potato mutilations from something I saw called 'Bunny Suicides.' If you get a good idea for future mutilations, feel free to review or PM because Romano and Canada need to fill that sketchbook out. You may or may not see your ideas later on in the story, depends on if I took my medication that week. }:3

Next chapter will be in Romano's Point of View, see ya in a week :D


	2. Just Let me Drink, Damn It!

**Disclaimer:** Sphygmomanometers state I don't own Hetalia.

"Big fat thank yous go to anyone who reviewed, favored, alerted, or just plain reads this story. Those e-mails partying in Otter's inbox made her day." ~ c(^.^c)

**Warnings: **Vulgar humor, Lovinian language, some angst, smiley face armies, overuse of the word 'bastard'

**Notes:** Well lookie here, I actually did something on time. :D And I found out () that this paring is called Romanada

Here are the translations for the Italian words. I did not use Google translate, but cross referenced on different sites online.

Fratello – brother

Capisci – informal you understand

Doppio – double. Espresso is served in small servings, so you can order a double for a bigger size.

Vaffanculo – Fuck off/ Fuck it

En to the joy~

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><p>Chapter II: <em>Just Let me Drink, Damn It!<em>

Romano's Point of View

_Fuck you Lady Luck, quit PMSing and using my life as some sort of sick joke._ In his attempt to avoid The Bulge and the pedophilic third of the Bad Touch Trio, that damn Tomato Bastard, Mr. medium, dark, and pissy left all his papers in the conference room. It is not like he took any real notes anyway, but he left his sketchbook back at the conference room and he could not just waltz back in there like some fool to retrieve it. Being a fool is his fratello's job.

Romano noticed Feliciano and that damn Potato Bastard walking away from his location, holding hands to his unamusement, along with Albino Bastard, Tomato Bastard, and Piano Bastard. Hands clenching, Romano felt abandoned that none of them even tried to hard to look for him to see if he wanted to join them for lunch. Then again, he probably would have come up with some snarky remark, but it is the thought that counts, right? (And running before they asked had absolutely nothing to do with it, capisci).

The main reason Romano didn't want to join the others was because he would feel like a third-wheel. _Fratello has Potato Bastard, anyone with functional eyes can see the sparks between Antonio and Piano Bastard. Hell, even the obnoxious albino has Hungary… plus her frying pan. _Romano constantly told himself that he was use to people preferring his brother over him or being left out in general… but it truly does hurt like a bitch to be inferior in every single fucking way. And Romano knows that bitches, in the dog sense, hurt. He learned that the hard way by antagonizing one of Germany's dogs with a tomato piece.

Pacing with a mantra of sighs and grumbled swears around the bock to his favorite café, Romano began to think of the meeting so far to distract himself from bad thoughts. No one could understand IKEA Bastard, Burger Bastard set a new level on his stupid scale (the previous high was Feli believing that that squirrel was shaving and forgot to wipe), Bicycle Bastard (Denmark) was acting stupider than the idiot captain of the cruise ship that sank south of him… and then Maple Bastard (Romano could not remember his nation name, but remembers he is America's brother, the giant hunk of ice north of America, there is a maple leaf on his country's flag… and something else relating them back when he was Antonio's colony) peeking at his drawings for Feliciano's birthday gift. Nosy fucker.

Hopefully, with the present, Feliciano would understand all the faults with potatoes, thus the Potato Bastard, and break up with his steroid-addicted ass. But with Romano's beautiful luck, Feli would think he turned over to the dark side of potato loving and would try to get him and Hasselhoff to be friends. _Because that worked out so well last time. Thank god the stupids are not contagious or Feli would be in a bubble for a long time._

Being around noon, aka sudden death for all people working at a food establishment, there were more bodies in the streets than usual. Swiftly, our current protagonist was able to navigate and cut through the various crowds. He passed by a group of pretty girls and gave them his Italian 'charm your socks off' smile that made them blush and giggle. This charming smile, or smiles in general, are not reserved solely for women. Only people he likes, contrary to popular belief, but those other nations can think what ever the flying-fuck they want. Continuing on his quest, Romano's mouth morphed back into its usual scowl.

Finally making it to the street which held the café, the brunette was relieved because his black Armani suit was not helping in this weather. He pushed on the door of the Nostalgic Café, making sure it is a push door beforehand. Because those fuckers switch on you. Romano loves this café because of its hominess. The walls are made of a light-colored wood, the floors of a darker wood, and there are several small tables placed throughout the room with simple photos from history on the walls. However, the most important thing is that they have espresso. Romano is surprised that there are no random sun rays shining down from the heavens on that machine, because coffee will _never_ compare to the rich, smooth taste of espresso from a quaint family-ran café. Fuck chain companies up their mediocre asses.

Romano went up to the counter with a slight skip in his step and ordered his usual, a doppio espresso along with a small sandwich which contained tomatoes. Waiting for the food was a pain, but time makes perfection, thus was the reason why Romano was counting the number of taxies that went by the window. An 'order 12' was the key to his salvation from the hells of hunger. With a warm espresso in one hand and a cold sandwich in the other, the brunette made his way back to his secluded table in the back near a window. He made it to 57 taxies and wanted to make it to 666 damn it.

The Italian sat down and was about to take a sip from his happiness in a cup when his ass vibrated. "Fuck whoever sent that text," Romano mumbled to himself, setting the espresso down and taking his simple cell phone out, pasta keychain jingling in the process. Of course, only someone like Feli (or Antonio) would get something that stupid and useless… and Romano would only admit to Feli that he actually thinks it is (kind of) cute when he is 123% smashed. Because at 100% he is still a dick, at least which is what other people tell him. Those levels of intoxication tent to leave Romano feeling bad in the morning.

Sliding the cell open, Romano saw that the text was from his Northern half.

**From: **Fratello :D

Looooviiii~ Where r u? Me, Luddy, Toni & others all tried 2 find u 2 c if u wanted 2 8 w/ us. :3 Going 2 new pasta :D :D restaurant down street~ Couldn't find u. ): Should have many kinds of great—

The text was cut off there due to Feli's rambling idiocy. _And since when did that smiley face get next to fratello? Damn, I should not have taught that boy how to pick-pocket… or how to hot-wire a car._ The latter was due to the incident of 1992 which would forever scar the living room of the Vargas' household. If you look closely, you can still see where the new drywall was put up and the tire marks under the carpet.

'Lovi' let the cheap-ass cell drop to the tabletop. He did not feel like responding to Feli's text with abbreviations for two-letter words at the moment when a delicious lunch was calling to him with little eat me's. Picking up the espresso cup, warmth radiating through his hand, Romano brought it close to his mouth when his cell went off again. Attempting to make the espresso cup and table one, Romano slammed the cup onto the table, earning a few weird looks from the other residents of the café in the process.

The nation opened his cell again to be met face to screen with:

**From:** Fratello :D

Other message got cut off. ono I never got to list the pasta :D :D they have~ They have linguine (:, fettuccine 8D, penne n.n, farfalline =), …

Irritated golden eyes stopped reading at this point as this was just Feli's usual bullshitting of the most mundane topics (Although, Feli, after explaining that mundane had nothing to do with the moon nor dogs, would say that pasta is no mundane topic). Besides, the text was cut off again, thus incomplete to even put in the effort of 3 calories to finish reading.

Romano couldn't explain it, but he had a stalker feeling that he was being watched. _Probably just the bastards giving me weird looks earlier._

To prevent the world from exploding due to over exposure to pasta lists which can put global warming to shame in terms of its annoyance, Romano typed furiously.

**To:** Fratello -.-

Oi, idiot. Calm the fuck down, I get the picture. Lots of pretty pasta. At N Café, don't want to come. Quit using text chat. Before you ask, not being murdered/ kidnapped. Ciao.

Hitting the send button, the Italian made a mental note to bitch at Feliciano on a later date about his use of numbers as letters and about taking his phone out of his pocket.

Sliding the connection device back into the pace Feli was not allowed to pick (which is anywhere, really), Romano scooped up his precious drink. He was determined to not be interrupted again, screw any meteor smacking the Earth right now.

"E-Excuse me, Lovino?" A voice as soft as falling snow, which Romano swore (though that means nothing to a man born from a trucker and sailor like him) he heard before, echoed into his field of hearing. Espresso cup bottom met table once again as Romano slammed the drink, spilling some of the still scalding dark brown liquid onto his hand. "Vaffanculo! Who do I need to castrate!" Romano declared to the world of the café, turning to glare at the offender whom dared to interfere with his attempts at bliss.

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><p>And if you would look up, you will see wild Cliffhangers in their natural habitat. Such powerful creatures, they are, for they are known to have been the reason for several riots in various areas of the land of Fanfiction by simply existing.<p>

The Italian cruise ship sinking was an actual event that happened a few weeks ago.

Bicycles are a big method of transportation in Denmark.

Things are slow right now, but should pick up next chapter. These first 2 chapters are more of an introduction than a bucket of slugs courtesy of one Ronald Weasley.


	3. Oh my God, Actual Character Interaction

**Disclaimer:** Hello my pretties. Look at a mirror, now back to your screen, now back to the mirror, now back to your screen. Sadly, the author of this story does not own Hetalia. But maybe if she stopped vomiting bullshit into this story and started making it awesome for that person in the mirror, she could make it the story of your dreams.

Maple Leaves are red  
>Tomatoes are too<br>What the hell is this?  
>A poem saying thank you~<br>-Dedicated to the peoples who reviewed/ favored/ alerted/ reads this story.

**Warnings:** Vulgar humor, language, horror/angst-addict writing fluff, maple crime scenes

**Notes:** Happy belated Whipped Person's Day, I mean Valentines Day.  
>And enjoy the Carnival (Mardi Gras) festivities~ :D Remember, buzzed driving is drunk driving. Don't become a statistic~<p>

From having 5 tests this week to my younger sister nagging me about being hungry, how the flying-fuck did I write such a long chapter? o.o (2,917 words not including notes, but only my otter minions are counting) Originally did not plan on splitting this into 2 parts, but big piles of stinkin' poop happens. This chapter would have been really long without the split. Going to try to make all chapters from here on out 2,000+ words, but don't hold me to this.

Disfruta~

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><p>Chapter III, Part 1: <em>Oh. My. Gods. Actual Character Interaction.<em>

Canada's Point of View

Only those with well-trained ears could hear the soft O Canada entering the Nostalgia Café. Shiny black dress shoes carried Canada (but because our setting is in the United States he is now 'transformed' into Canadia) across the wooden floor. The Canadian enjoys this café for its simplicity. Simple is sometimes best, thus the acronym KISS. Compared to the many shiny buildings next to it, this café could be akin to ancient by younger generations. To be put in a museum or not, the food is still great.

This was why he was standing in front of the counter, waiting for someone to notice him.

Giving an exasperated sigh, Canada thanked whatever god there was who put a service bell on the counter. The resulting ding alerted the middle-aged woman who was closest to the counter to the potential of money. "Hello," the blonde began with his whispery voice which caused the woman to have to lean forward slightly to hear, "I would like to order a turkey sandwich with—" A loud thud jumped through the ears of everyone in the café, causing eyes to seek for the cause of the noise. As people always do. The Canadian was no different and he turned his doe eyes to the area where the thud originated from in the back. He was completely flabbergasted by what he saw.

"Romano?"

"Sorry dear, we don't carry romano cheese, not many people like it. How about Swiss instead?" Canada smiled at the woman, agreeing to the Swiss. He was lucky that Romano's nation name was not an actual country name. A turkey sandwich with Italy would have caused an awkward silence. _If Turkey ate turkey, would that count as cannibalism?_

Obtaining an order number 15, the blonde's mind returned from the realms of trying to find the answers to questions everyone ponders over. Mr. tall, pale, and mapley made the decision to trek over to Romano's table and return his things.

When Canada sat down in the chair across from Romano, the Italian was texting someone, quite furiously if he might add, on a cell phone that would serve a better purpose of being a projectile. Of course, this action went unnoticed by the Mediterranean half nation.

The Arctic nation wondered why he has that crappy phone. Last Christmas season, Alfred bought all of the nations, excluding Russia, a shiny-new iPhone. Canada's was nestled in his pocket, probably dead from lack of use. The blonde knew Alfred got one for every nation, excluding Russia, because Canada had to temporarily borrow Finland's job and checked his list of nations. Twice. Italy was on that list. _But not Romano._ a small cricket-like thought made its presence known in the back of the nations head, however, he quickly dismissed it. He currently needed to think of a battle strategy of how he was going to go about this. Because giving someone pieces of paper should be in the Olympics, see England to sign up.

The olive-skinned, scowling man before him placed the shitphone back in the pocket of his black, expensive-looking suit and picked up his coffee, still unaware of the body before him. Now was Canada's change to get Lovino's (Canada knew that was his human name from Francis) attention, as interrupting his texting spree earlier would have been rude.

"E-Excuse me, Lovino?" Canada asked, fully expecting to be ignored. Boy was this sorry sap wrong. Too bad he didn't know that Romano was like one of his volcanoes, about to explode. And that interrupting an Italian and their espresso should be the 8th deadly sin.

"Vaffanculo! Who do I need to castrate!" a baritone Italian-accented voice exclaimed from the pissed man before him.

_Maple shit, shit maple of the shit._ The good news was it only took one time to get Romano's attention. That almost never happens. The bad news was that said Romano was now glaring at him with the fury of a woman scorned. Like Belarus.

Canada did _not_ want to offend Romano; he knows respect is important in Italian culture. Plus the bruises which Spain sometimes obtain from calling him a tomato may have something to do with it. Just a pinch.

The fearing-for-waking-up-chained-to-a-chair Canadian had an apology ready on his tongue, however Romano started shaking his hand and muttering words (aka, curses) in Italian and, what Canada guessed, Latin. The dark liquid of Romano's coffee was spilt over part of the table and all over Romano's hand, which must be slightly burnt due to his reaction. People don't randomly wave at the air unless they were Arthur greeting his friends. And Romano's eyebrows were of an average size.

Quickly, Canada scurried up to the counter to fetch a cup of cold water. Luckily the scene caused everyone to be a little more attentive so he was able to get the water and some extra napkins in a timely manner. Returning to the table, the burn relief objects were placed on the table and Romano did not hesitate a second in soaking his hand in the cup, releasing a sigh of relief.

"Are you ok?" Canada questioned the half nation before him, moving to help wipe up the mud puddles on the table.

"If burning your hand on espresso is the new code for ok, then I am shooting sunshine out of my fucking ass." Romano snarked using his good hand to take the napkins out of Canada's. "You got the water, I got the clean up." The napkins turned from their light brown color to dark, soggy messes as the brunette cleaned the table of coffee (_didn't he call it espresso_) single-handedly. Literally.

_At least he does not seem very angry_, but it is in Canada's nature to apologize over every little thing. "Lovino," the nation began. The brunette looked up from his task at the mention of his human name, with what appeared to be shock in his golden eyes. _No, not just golden. There is hazel as well as olive green… I am being extrospective again._ "I-I am really sorry about this. I d-didn't mean for i-it to happen. Again sorry, so—"

"Stop apologizing, you did nothing wrong. It was the damn espresso's fault for spilling… How the hell do you know my human name?"

The blonde was surprised at the temperamental Italian's response. No threats. No cursing. No screaming. No blaming (tell that to the poor cup whose feelings are hurt). While the comment was still on the rude side, one could take it as a complement. You know, if you covered your ears with printed duct tape and listened for a ticking noise which seems to come out of nowhere.

"Francis, er France told me, eh." Canada heard the brunette mutter a 'pervert' under his breath when he said Francis.

Removing his adequately de-burned hand from the cup, Romano dried it and preformed inanimate object abuse by drowning all the napkins in the water of the cup. "And why the fuck are you here? Have you been stalking me? Because that shitstorm of a position is already filled, Maple Bastard." The brows of the half nation before him were furrowed. Hands, one redder than the other, clasped in front of his mouth with elbow to table contact.

Canada raised an eyebrow and widened his eyes to the stalker comment, but opted to ignore it. Simply placing it under the category labeled sarcasm. No, what intrigued the Arctic nation more was this continued use of the … nickname? 'Maple Bastard'. Not flattering at first glance, but to Canada, it was. To a degree. Calling someone a bastard is still not very nice. None-the-less, The maple part showed him that Romano at least had some idea of who he was talking to… _Or maybe he really has no effing idea who I am. Probably the more likely idea than putting all my hope on thin ice._

These thoughts were running on hamster wheels in the noggin of our blonde protagonist, but he did not want a repeat of what happened this morning, so he made sure to speak, voice slightly shaky due to the pressure of the accusation, "N-Non. No stalking here, this is simply m-my favorite place for lunch in this city. I honestly had no idea you were here when I walked in…" to avoid the dreaded question, Canada added at the last minute, "You may call me Matthew, by the way. that is my human name." He finished with a small smile.

An 'Order 15' rang out, announcing someone is about to have their hunger satisfied. "Oh, there is my food, I'll be right back." Good thing this is not a slasher film or those parting words would be false.

"Is it ok if I sit with you Lovino?" Asked Canada upon returning to the table.

Romano put the direction of his coffeespresso in reverse, towards the table. Once again. "You and Feli are both really good at that shit. Aren't you already sitting there?" Cue motions to Canada's shit draped over the chair in front of him. Continuing in a way that Canada thought wasn't meant for his ears due to the soft mumbling and eye avoidance, "And besides, what shitty clue would make you want to sit here?"

Lips curving into a soft, small smile, the nation seated himself once again across from Romano. _He never said a flat out Fuck off._ "Thank you. And why wouldn't I want to sit here? Besides, I have something to give you." Canada took the sketchbook and manila file with an Italian flag sticker pasted on it out of his satchel and passed them across the table to the wide-eyed brunette.

"What. The fuck?" A questioning glare was sent the Arctic nation's way.

"S-Sorry if this seems snoopish. I-I just didn't want your stuff to be left in the conference room where any perverted nation (though that does not really limit the number) could go and draw p-penises, or something like that, all over them," Canada explained, blushing slightly from embarrassment. Canada knows the drawing incident from first-hand experience. Once, he left his papers in a meeting room. When he came back there was a whole orgy crudely drawn all over them. Damn, his papers get more attention than he does, even if it is of the unwanted type.

There were several moments of uninterrupted silence. Not of the awkward type, but more of the unexplainably right kind. Both nations began to pick at their wiches of sand, the original reason of why they came here. "Thanks Matthew."

Canada almost did not hear that simple word which is so hard for many people to say and that simple name which is so hard for many people to remember. Canada thought Romano only said thanks when you put a noose around your neck and kicked. One of the few times Canada judges someone and it turns out he was wrong. But he wanted to make sure what he heard was right. "I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"Chigi! Do you have some type of fucking fetish with hearing yourself say sorry?" Romano irritably commented, but his voice smoothed some with, "And I said, why the fuck didn't you get a drink with your sandwich, damn it?"

_Changing the subject._ Instead of pointing this out and causing Mt. Etna to use the move eruption, "Oh. I must have forgotten. I don't really drink coffee during the day anyways."

"Only people who are desperate or brainwashed by Starfucks like that shit called coffee." Canada laughed at the Starbucks-Starfucks comment. _They will __**never**__ compare to Tim Hortons._ "But, here." The now slightly red-faced half nation pushed his drink over to the blonde. "Before you ask, I didn't take a drink out of it. It's espresso, motherfucking god in a cup."

Canada never had espresso before, but with Romano looking at him expectantly… fuck he couldn't get out of this can he? _Hope this doesn't turn out like the escargot incident…_ Timidly taking the small cup (how does it still have a sizeable amount of liquid in it after the spilling?) into his pale hands, Canada took a sip. Then died and went to heaven.

Bitter for the blonde's sweet tooth, but the rich flavor warmed his esophagus and tummy causing him to give a grunt of satisfaction. Adding maple syrup would leave foodgasams in its wake.

Canada glanced over to Romano. He was smirking. Not condescending at all, there. Canada didn't understand why, but he could feel his cheeks gain a rosy hue. Must be from embarrassment of the grunting noise earlier. "A little bitter, but very good."

"Yeah, you better fucking enjoy it." Romano pushed his chair out, squeaky noises not included because this place is no flea-pit, and got up, heading towards the counter that is now conveniently empty. Talk about good timing.

"Where are you going?"

The Mediterranean half nation turned around to answer. "To start my new minion army of espressos. You are currently guzzling down my commander-in-chief" then stalked off to complete his dire mission.

The Canadian left back at the table took this chance to complete his own mission: Put Maple Syrup in this Espresso to make it Taste Sweeter. Kick-ass creativity in naming right there. Fishing his emergency maple syrup (_none of that cane-shit Alfred uses)_ out of his knapsack, he poured a good amount into the drink, taking a swing directly from the bottle in the process. Ninja-style, he mixed the drink and stored the syrup back in his pack before Romano came back. _And Alfred says my syrup stash is stupid when he pulls hamburgers out of his 'top-secret' stash in his bomber jacket._

Upon returning, the brunette's nose twitched like a rabbit during duck season while he made ass to chair contact. "Why the hell does it smell like… maple syrup?"

_Fucking maple, I need an excuse…_ "Umm… maybe someone loves pancakes a little too much and decided to keep some in their pocket as a pet?" Canada bullshitted, avoiding eye contact with the half nation.

Romano snorted and gave Canada a deadpanned look, replying to the possibility of a new species of pet with the same tone, "If you are going to lie, at least make it believable. Be confident, but not cocky. And keep eye contact, that is key. It is easy to tell if someone is lying through their eyes… And don't ask where the fuck I learned this." He took a moment pause. "Also, cleaning up the evidence won't hurt anyone but the investigators." He pointed to the small glob of syrup next to the espresso cup. Fuck, caught sticky-handed.

Romano took a sip of his 'motherfucking god in a cup.' If only anyone knew about the happiness bouncing off the walls inside the Italian, because you could bottle that up and sell it as a new stimulant as a street pharmacist. Canada took another sip as well, it tasted much better, but he could not help but comment quietly, not expecting to be heard. "You treat it as if it were a murder scene."

"Chigi! But it is a fucking murder scene," the tanned man defended. "You completely defiled the gorgeousness of that cup of espresso with maple syrup, which I am now dubbing the new weapon of espresso destruction, damn it."

A thought of his Mounties galloping around, throwing bottles of maple syrup at victims with coffee cups, and screaming 'Taste the Maple, hosers' along with the thought of aren't our sandwiches getting crusty from lack of consumption wormed their way through his head.

"As dangerous as tree blood is, how is it that you heard what I said? I mean, I said it quietly with my already whisper-like voice to boot." _Does Romano have hidden hearing-aids?_ The blonde does remember him dressing up as an old woman at the last Halloween Party among the nations.

Apprehensively, Romano scratched the back of his head, some blood running to his cheeks turning them into maple leaves. The head scratching was probably a nervous habit he picked up from living with Spain for so long because Canada has seen Spain, Mexico, and several other ex-Spanish colonies do that habit when they were nervous or sheepish.

"I Don't fucking know… It probably has to do with how I trained my self to be more aware of my damn surroundings from my time of keeping those fucktards of the Mafia from doing stupid shit. Why the fucking hell does it matter Maple Bastard?" This is another habit that Canada picked up about Romano, his swearing. Well, actually the _amount_ of swearing he does because he practically turns swearing into a language. He seems to cuss more when he is being defensive, embarrassed, or angry…

"N-No, sorry if I offended you. I actually like it that you can hear me… most other people can't and often they just don't notice me at all…" Canada's gaze turned to the half eaten sandwich, depression enveloping the blond because of centuries of near-isolation.

"… first off, quit mopping, you look pathetic." Because THAT helped the blonde's confidence. _But I am having the oddest sense of déjà vu. _"And second, you don't remember, do you?"

The confused Canadian looked up. "Remember what?"

The multi-natural colored eyes of Romano had a sheen that said he was not entirely here at the moment, thinking of a different time. "Don't fucking remember that we use to be close during our colony days, Canada."

* * *

><p>Feel free to guess who Romano's friendly neighborhood stalker-friend is. FYI, there is no, nor will there be, a romantic relationship between the two on either side.<p>

Romano is a variety of cheese that is not very popular due to its sharp, salty taste and its hardness. Fun fact.

The 2012 summer Olympics begin July 27, 2012 in London, England. Hellz yeah, go USA :D

I view Canada as an extrospective person. This can account for his 'invisibility' which is him just observing and analyzing the situation quietly, his ability to read the atmosphere, to read other people well, etc.

And now time for a shameless advertisement by our author:

I recently got a new big plot bunny. And when I say big, I mean one motherfucking, fat-ass, Russia-sized plot bunny. Lay off the chocolate, Christ. -.- Main parings will be Prumano (Prussia x Romano) and GerIta with several side pairings ranging from hetero, yaoi, crack, and canon. Theme is romance/science fiction/ adventure. Because sci-fi will smack you with its lightsaber into the realms of 42 where you will party it up on tripods with Spock.

Why should you readers of Nostalgia care?

If I can actually organize my thoughts onto paper and begin to write, I will only be able to update this story once every 2 weeks. Put that knife back where it came from, or so help me! Make pasta, not war~ I am guaranteeing a chapter next weekend, unless some freak occurrence happens like rabbids taking over the world, the Gods getting into another brawl, or my owl finally coming. (If you got all of those references, I fucking LOVE you)


	4. Fluffy CavityInducing Chibi Moments

**Disclaimer:** Me? Own Hetalia? bwhahaha kesesesese ohonhonhon fusosososo kolkolkolkol, no.

Well I'll be damn if there ain't be 10 reviews for only 3 chapters. Seriously guys, big thank you for the reviews, favorites, alerts, and reads. Never expected to get over 1 review per chapter.

**Warnings:** Character death, vulgar humor, human and nation names used, fat piles of fluffy fluff, author joking about the first warning, language, historical inaccuracy, sight molestation

**Notes:** This chapter is even longer than the last one. O.O You guys are spoiiiiiiiiled~

Spain is not a child molester in this fic, Romano just thinks he is.

I use the French form of Matthew's name, Mathieu, because England has yet to change it from the French form to the English form when Canada became and English colony.

The flashbacks are completely in _solid_ _italics_ and are not in any particular point of view. Personal thoughts/ emphasized words within flash backs are _**bolded italics.**_ The time period of the flashbacks is early 18th century. Before the 7 years war (1756-1763).

About the name usage, I believe that nations use their human names only if they are really close (such as siblings, close friends, or in a relationship) or if they are in public.

Yojne~

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><p>Chapter III, Part 2: <em>Fluffy Cavity-Inducing Chibi Moments<em>

Canada's Point of View

Canada's mind spiraled back through his long history of memories from the foggy beginnings of wearing pelts to the clear decisions of becoming an independent nation. He and Romano never were… Pause.

_A very young boy, no older than 7, sat Indian-style on a love seat near a large window overlooking a vast rose garden, the sunlight streaming through the panes of glass highlighting the youth of his pudgy cheeks and blonde curls. The high-quality, French-made white cloth of his dress, because chibis are gender neutral and dresses are easier to make, pooled around his legs. Camouflaged with the cloth was a small, white polar bear gently releasing little Z's into the air. _

_This is not the first time you would find the boy at this location surrounded by tranquility. Come by anytime earlier in the week and there is a high chance that he would still be here. He is surprised no one has used him as a piece of furniture yet… Kumalupa does not count._

"_Ahh, mon petit Mathieu, there you are. You had me worried for a second." A tall blonde, stubble included, flamboyantly waltzed into the sunroom and came to sit down next to his charge. "Although, I should have expected you to be here. You have been so for the past few days! I know my rose gardens are exquisite examples of beauty, but, mon petit, are you feeling well?" Francis placed his slender hand on Mathieu's forehead, checking for any signs of extra heat._

"_Oui, papa, I am fine. Thank you for your concern. I simply… j-just like this room? And Kumasano does as well." The young nation scratched the polar bear behind his ear, earning a small noise from the Arctic animal, hoping that his caretaker takes no notice of his discomfort._

"_Your temperature feels normal. Ah, if you insist. but, don't be afraid to tell papa if anything is amiss, oui?" Francis placed a plutonic kiss on Mathieu's forehead, as any doting father/older brother would. If they were as flamboyant as our favorite Frenchman. _

"_Of course, papa."_

"_Speaking of things that are wrong," he placed a finger on his lips, "would you happen to have seen mon Pierre anywhere? I have a message for him to deliver to Gilbert, but I can not find him anywhere." He turned to the younger, unaware of the nervousness jarring within the younger._

"_Oh, u-um. N-N-Non, I ha-have not seen him anywhere." Quickly to change the subject, "don't you have to leave for a meeting soon, eh?"_

_Oceanic blue eyes lit up, and not from a beautiful woman (or man) like usual. "Ah, yes. I have to go to that silly Rosbif's place. Let us see how much I can annoy mon lapin before he attempts to kill me with his atrocious food, oui." Mathieu let out soft giggles. And because he is a chibi, this does not affect his already hanging masculinity._

"_I really must be going, Mathieu. The carriage is already outside awaiting my departure, I believe. I shall be back in a little over weeks time, will you be ok on your own?" Concern for his charge was evident on the taller man's face and voice._

"_Oui, you have left me for longer periods of time before, papa. And I am not like England in the kitchen, you did teach me after all." Mathieu gave his caretaker a soft-nerve calming smile along with a compliment and insult to the Frenchman's Northern neighbor._

_It worked, as the narcissistic blonde feeds on praise, even if he has to give it to himself._

"_But of course you are a fabulous chef; I did teach you the fine art that is French cuisine, non?" He finished his dramatic statement with a flirtatious wink and joints popping slightly as he stood. "Alas, it is time that we parted ways, but fret not. Come next Sunday, we once again can take strolls through the rose gardens. But as of right now, a certain stuffy Englishman beckons me, ohonhonhon."_

_A rosewood travel trunk packed with non-tacky uniforms waiting by the front door watched as its blonde owners entered the foyer. Francis ran his long fingers through Mathieu's pale hair. "Au revoir, mon petit."_

"_Au revoir papa." These words were heard by the taller as he, and one of his butlers whom was carrying the heavy trunk as Francis would not be seen doing something as degrading, filed out of the ornate, heavy set rosewood front doors. _

_Mathieu did not have much time to ponder his newfound freedom as a tapping noise echoed from the sunroom. Excitedly, Mathieu ran back into the sunroom, causing every dust particle to be subjected to his radiating glee. Pierre was at the window, a small scroll attached to his leg. Pierre was finally back after his usual routine trip to Spain, but with a different goal this time. Pierre was… pooping on the window.** Eww.** The colony sighed and opened the window, allowing the now-relieved white fuzz-ball to enter the airspace of the sunroom. He seated himself on the rosewood desk set against one of the walls of the room._

"_Hello Pierre," the colony greeted the bird. Pierre gave his best interpretation of the hello back, coming out more of a 'cheep' instead of a 'hi'. He began to dig into the crackers and water that was pre-set on the desk, waiting to accomplish their life goal of being consumed by a white fluff-ball._

_Mathieu carefully took the tiny scroll out of its metal pouch attached to the unknown species of bird's leg, but did not open it. **This is it, the first of, hopefully, several. Oh maple, I can't believe we are doing this. If Spain and France found out…**_

_Apprehension shot through Mathieu's nerves as he shakily unrolled the small cream-colored paper, slopping noise in the background via one Pierre, and scanned the small, scratchy, cursive black writing._

_Mathieu (this part was crossed off and replaced with) Canada,_

_ That dumb bird-face better have gotten this letter to you safely. But considering you are reading this, then that means one less birdy funeral. Give Pierre an extra cracker for me. To answer your questions, yeah, I am doing fine. However, I sometimes believe Spain is a pedophile considering how affectionate he is. I've heard France is rather affectionate as well. How the hell do you deal with that shit? Anyway, how are you? Other questions: favorite color, red. Favorite food, pizza. Favorite animal, wolf. Have I mentioned these are kind of stupid questions? Favorite activity, pissing Spain off. Favorite place to be, on the cliff seacoasts of Southern Italy. You said your favorite animal is a … polar bear? What the fuck are those? And I have never heard of pancakes either. About to run out of room. Damn it. Expecting your next letter whenever possible. Ciao. –Italia Romano AKA Lovino_

_P.S. Don't expect me to put 'Dear' or 'Sincerely'. And how the hell was I able to get all this text on this small piece of paper?_

_ Thin, pale lips curved into the largest smile Mathieu has had on his face in sometime. Lovino's idea of 'putting France's bird to better use than just exchanging sex letters between Spain, France, and Prussia, damn it' was a success. _

This flashback catalyzed an explosion of other memories. Letters. Tomatoes. Gardens. Thunderstorms. Pranks. Cooking. Human names. "We use to send letters to each other through Pierre, pretty sure Francis still doesn't know we did that. It is all… starting to come back now." The Arctic nation was astounded at how all of this could have fallen into the recesses of his mind. It was pretty ironic, too. Usually other people were the ones to forget him. Now the roles were reversed, with Canada being the forgetter.

"Yeah. And as much as I hate to admit it, that bird-face was really useful. Even if he is a creeper like his owner," Romano imputed, a small frown forming on his face.

Canada was use to the other nations thinking lowly of his first caretaker. You name it, he as heard creeper, dramatic frog, rapist, dumb frog, pervert (though that one is true), fucking frog, flamboyant ass, loose frog, permanently in heat, bastard frog, sleazy harlot, frog face, porn star, frog fucker, priss, floozy frog, pedophile, froggy git, manwhore. He has even heard bitch-tits before, making a jab at the time he stuffed his shirt with grapefruits to look like a woman for free entrance into a bar with the Bad Touch Trio. He pulled it off quite nicely, considering Canada was the one who had to fetch his drunken ass. And even if most of these things about Francis are true, he is not a bad person at heart. He just likes his dick a little too much. Canada does not like it when people judged Francis without seeing his tender moments of non-sex related conditions. Such as the ones they shared when he was Francis' colony, and Canada made a resolve to try to get Romano to see this light. Somebody get him a shooting star.

"What makes you say Pierre is a creeper?" Canada was quite curious about this.

There was a slight pause before he answered, "One time when I was younger, I left Spain's house to go see my fratello. That damn bird-chick thing followed me all the way from Madrid to the Spanish boarder. And we weren't even in fucking France!" The half nation used hand motions to exaggerate his point. He sighed and shook his head, wayward curl of chocolate brown sprouting from the right side of his head dancing.

The blonde had to admit that was a little… unusual (creepy). And one time he swore he saw Pierre sitting on the branch outside of the washroom window while we was using it to clean himself. _Ok, I have to give Romano credit for this one. Pierre is a bit of a creeper._ "Now that I think about it, Pierre is a little…"

"Fucker?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of sight molester, but that can work too."

He saw it. Canada actually just witnessed, in person, one of the rarest events on this planet. The lips of Romano curved upward slightly, and not in his general smirk, but a genuine smile. It was only a fraction of a second before it was replaced by his default slight-downwards curve-frown. Canada didn't understand why people put gemstones in jewelry when the smile of the man across from him can make any diamond run crying carbon back home to its volcano. It was beautiful. Simple. Not gaudy or obnoxious like Alfred's or Gilbert's, just simple and…_Oh God._ Canada's inner romantic French side was taking over as he felt blood rush to his cheeks flashing a positive sign he was embarrassed.

The man across from him coughed, a light fall of maple leaves dusting his cheeks. At least he was not the only one embarrassed, but what does he have to be embarrassed about? _Please don't tell me he can read my mind… but this is not one of Alfred's movies._

"Sight molestation. I'll have to remember that one. So, how much more freedom do we have till we are once again subjected to the torture of piss-poor speeches at the meeting?"

Taking his actually useful for once iPhone out, the nation reported a little over an hour left. "But speaking of meetings, do you remember the time we first met?" the soft voice of Canada's vocalized his thoughts.

Romano evacuated his mouse of the coffee, excuse him, _espresso_ taking residence there. Apparently questions are the new natural disaster. "Of course, it is not easy to forget seeing France and a little version of him on your doorstep."

_"But Spain, you Tomato Bastard, why does it have to be FRANCE of all people? Why not just call the local penitentiary and invite all the convicts over for a party at the dumass' down the street? It is not like there will be a difference in rapeness level!" A lanky 9 or so year old in appearance seethed to the painfully oblivious man before him._

_ "Aww, Lovi, (don't call me that!) but if we invited the convicts over, then they would eat all the tomatoes!" 'Tomato Bastard' voiced as he placed the large wooden table of wine and other Spanish delicacies, such as churros, for their expected guests. "Besides, Francis is not the only one coming. He is bringing his little colony... umm… ha-ha, I can't seem to remember his… or her name." The sunny like his land, green eyed man sheepishly scratched the back of his head, unaware that he would be passing the habit on. "Do you think you can help me set the table, por favor?" Lovino felt the full force that is Antonio's puppy-dog eyes._

_ Face palming, Lovino deadpanned, "you completely missed the point. Again. And changed the subject. Again!" He muttered a bastard only available for his ears. None the less, Lovino began moving the cinnamon-covered, deep-fried, goodnesses in stick form to the table. "Besides, didn't you say the colonies name was Canadia or something?"_

_ "Who, Lovi?"_

_ 'Lovi' growled at the pet name with all the ferocity he could produce. In other words, it sounded like a Chihuahua somehow got into the room. "Never mind… don't expect me to interact with the Wine Bastard. I will happily be hibernating in my room." The colony finished his task and stalked off to the stairs to do just what he said he would for the rest of the week as France and his colony would be staying for a full. Damn. Week._

_ "Awww, Lovi, you sure? I'm positive Francis won't be bad!" The optimism pumped through his Spanish veins and voice. Which France would be loosing via severed head by the halberd in Spain's closet if he touches 'Lovi' inappropriately._

_ "I'm sure," the pissy colony shortly answered, putting the apron attached to his pink maid outfit to good use by using it as a basket for carrying several perfectly ripe tomatoes for his stash up to his cave of solitude from pedophile Spaniards and rapist Frenchman. And perverted Prussians and selfish Austrians. Perhaps he should add mysterious Canadias to that list. "Let me know when they are gone."_

_ Trudging up the stairs to the second floor landing of the vast three story house, Lovino heard a rapping at the chamber door. Quoth the colony, "Fucking Frenchman." However, the brunette was curious as to what the colony looked like; Antonio said he—at least Romano was pretty sure it was a he—was around his age and from the Americas. There were not many nations around his age except for his brother, but that door was out of the question. **Fucking prissy-ass Piano Bastard.**_

_ He waited on the landing of the second floor, watching as his caretaker opened the heavy, dark-wooden doors to reveal two blonds. That looked like fucking twins. Except one was a miniature of the other, must be Canadia… or was it Canada? The ladder sounded less like Spanish, so decided to go with Canada._

_ Romano glared at the two intrusions below as Antonio enthusiastically greeted his Northeastern neighbor. He noticed that the other colony seemed to be nervous, fidgeting with his expensive-looking clothing and his blue eyes darting to places.** Cheh, but Antonio tends to be overbearing for one the first time you meet with his hug terrorism and shit.**_

_ But those blue eyes which were soaking up the details of the Spanish-styled house next darted to the second floor landing, locking onto hazely golden. The blond tilted his head like a puppy. At this point, Lovino realized that his eyes were not blue, but a darker shade of it. More like an indigo.** Who the fuck has indigo eyes? And this colony is probably just as perverted as his caretaker.**_

_ Instead of giving the other colony a rude gesture, Lovino opted to simply glare and lumber back on into his room. And change out of these ridiculous clothes because he was** not** wearing this abomination that Spain put him in—against his will—in hopes that he would pick up some of his brother's charm around the Frenchman. Or the Canadian._

"Yeah… When you were glaring at me from the stairs, I thought I did something wrong." Nervously laughing, Canada added, feeling bold, "You know, the way you said it made you sound k-kind of like a creeper. Staring down on the scene like that."

_Oh maple-shit. I shouldn't have said that. Now Romano is going to be piss—_ A flick to the forehead halted his internal panic attack. It didn't hurt, per say, but where the heck did that come from?

"Bastard, I thought we agreed on Pierre being the creeper here." There was the Canadian's answer. Romano used flick. The Mediterranean half nation's tone was playful with a pinch of annoyance. But that annoyance is to be expected when one charges you with the crime of being a creeper.

"E-Eh, he still is. But that was not the memory I was thinking of. We really didn't meet then… I was referring to the vase incident.

_The young blonde wandered through the twisting red-wood hallways of the second floor of Spain's house. Lost. All of the hallways look identical with the red design on the rugs and the dark iron candelabras lining the walls. The colony quickly checked his flanks and behind, nerves seeping into his blood. He has been meandering about for well over an hour now with no signs of the other three dwellers. And his quiet voice was of no help._

_ Sighing, he turned another corner which he has now memorized the looks of. However, this new hallway was different as it contained another colony, dusting a vase so large that he could hide inside of it. Francis said his name was… Romano? Yes, that was it. He was a portion of Italy._

_ Canada remembered seeing the boy—around his age which is a current rarity—on this floor yesterday morning when he and Francis arrived for a week-long visit. He did not look happy then, nor does he now. _

_ **Oh god, what did I do wrong? He was glaring yesterday… I should go apologize. Hopefully that will set things right between us.** Plan set, the blonde carefully (as to not scare Romano, causing the vase to tip) and nervously padded along the plush rugs towards the brunette. Passing a stain in the rug on the way._

_ "E-E-Excuse m-me, Romano?" The name felt foreign on his tongue. Their was no reaction from the asked. But Canada was determined to set things right between him and Romano, he really wanted someone his age to talk to. His brother was off-limits as Francis and England rarely meet up for tea. let alone bringing their charges with them. "Excuse m-me, Romano?" Nothing. He raised his voice. "Italy?" That worked._

_ "Chigi!" The surprised brunette squealed. "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, pointing his feather duster at the blonde as a make-shift cutlass. Even though it was just a duster, which would only be dangerous by being a dangerously pathetic weapon choice in a fight resulting in your maiming, Canada raised his hands in surrender and gawked wide-eyed at the boy before him. "What the fuck do you want Canada Bastard?" Romano barked again, interrupting Canada's mantra of sorries._

_ "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm, wait. Y-You know w-who I am?"_

_ Having the vase face the wrath of his duster once again, "That Tomato Bastard told me, but you never answered my question."_

_ Romano was still glowering at the blonde colony, causing his already frazzled nerves to spit-fire more. "I-I'm lost. Do… do y-you think you c-can show me back t-to the first floor? Please?"_

_ "No. I have to finish this dusting or else I'm making dinner."_

_ Canada's face fell, "O-Ok… If I help you clean, will you show me afterwards?" He tilted his head to the right, using his puppy-dog eyes he sometimes uses on Francis for extra sweets._

_ Romano surprisingly gaped at the other colony. People rarely offer to help him because of his foul attitude, yet, here was some **stranger** offering it… was this kid stupid? **But so far he has yet to try to ravage me, so maybe he really is different from the Wine Bastard…** "Surrrrrre," Romano answered, rolling his R, "I can make that deal." Canada was elated that they were making progress._

_Romano was about to pass a rag to the blonde, but then he felt it. That bubbling pit of fire that runs through his veins. That cracking of explosion sites within his body. The bane of his existence that causes him so much strife._

_Romano's limbs began to spasm, going in all directions. He collided with the floor, the whites of his eyes visible through the slits. Canada took a step back, he was petrified from the scene. Romano looked possessed._

_In his episode, one of the limbs of Romano smacked the vase, sending a spray of glass shards across the wooden floor and into the fibers of the rug and a resulting loud crash. _

_Gathering all the courage he could, Canada stepped into the fray of shattered glass and flailing limbs. He placed a shaking pale hand on Romano's shoulder. "R-Romano? Please, stop!"_

_ And just like that, it stopped. The spasms. The noise. But the worry didn't. Dazed, the Mediterranean colony opened his eyes, expelling the whites of them back into the confines of his head. "Ngh, shit," the olive-skinned boy muttered as he attempted to stand. Canada offered his hand and Romano, or once, accepted the help without remark. _

_ Both colonies surveyed the carnage around them. There was pieces of broken vase half-way down the long corridor, however physics allowed that to happen. In essence, they were screwed. Especially considering France and Spain were now exchanging glances from the slayed vase to their charges. Spain was the first to recover, "Awww, Roma, I really liked that vase too. I wanted you to dust, not break it." Romano winked at his disappointed tone and his use of Roma instead of Lovi. Even if he despises the nickname._

_ Opening his mouth to defend himself, Romano was about to rebuttal when Canada beat him to the punch._

_ "It was me!" Six eyes of three different shades turned towards the shorter blond. "I-I mean… I w-was the one who kn-knocked the vase over." Canada lied, face flush from the sudden attention. Eyes downcast to focus on that stain from earlier. _

_ "Oh, mon petit, how could you have done something like this? It is not like you. Mon ami Antonio, please forgive Mathieu for he is not being himself!" France dramatically placed his hand over his center of l'amour in mock hurt. The other hand slyly creeping down to dat ass of Spain._

_ "Oh, it is fine mi amigo! Besides, with that blush, Matteo looks like a tomato~" Spain pinched Canada's chubby cheek. The ones on his face (perverts). "But Lovi, can you clean this up, por favor? Afterward, we can all have cena!" **No wonder Romano has such a short temper with how he has to deal with that much obliviousness**, Canada thought._

_ "Mathieu, I would love for you to assist little Romano as well. Antonio and moi are going to go prepare dinner." France had a look that said 'I'll whine at you later.'_

_ "Ok papa and Spain."_

_ Everyone turned to Romano, who had been silent this entire time with his arms crossed and a pout on his face. "… fine, whatever. Just fuck off and go start dinner, damn it." The two elder nations left, leaving the two youngsters to their task._

_ Canada bent down to begin damage control of the murdered vase, when a soft voice from the usually louder brunette broke his concentration. "Why did you do that?"_

_ Canada glanced over to the other colony. He was peering at him as if the answer was written on his face. "I… I don't know." And he truly didn't._

_ "Don't know!" Romano exploded. Canada flinched at the banshee voice. **Shit, I don't want to scare him**, Romano thought to himself. Pulling the viciousness out of his voice, "What I mean is…" Romano scratched the back of his head. (It already spread!) "Fuck! Never mind, I'll go get a box we can put this shit in." Returning a few minutes later with a tough paper box and broom, Romano found all the shards already in one large pile of Mt. Brokensville. "Damn. Are you some type of cleaning fairy?"_

_ This time it was Canada's turn to be surprised. "O-Oh. You came back," he relieved._

_ "And why the hell wouldn't I?"_

_ "I-I just thought… that you would leave… the cleaning task to me," the blonde glumly confessed his inner thoughts. _

_ The brunette knelt down next to the indigo-eyed boy and began—carefully as to not cut himself—picking up pieces of vase and throwing them into the box. "Bastard." Romano's tone was not snappy like those turtles of Spain, "I said I would help clean up so I will do so, damn it."_

_ After that deceleration, the only sound between the two colonies was of glass being abusively thrown into a box. When Canada tossed the last piece in, "I think I covered for you because I didn't like seeing you upset," he gently stated. "I don't get to interact with a lot of people, Romano, and I really just want us to get along because we are the only two nations around the same age with caretakers who actually get along." The confessing colony drew his knees close to his chest for some pseudo-protection from the painful emotions. Tears began to form in his large eyes, causing them to gain a glassy quality. "Most people ignore me. Or just not notice me, and I don't understand why." Little drops of melancholy started to fall from his indigo eyes causing streaks to form on his face._

_ **S-Shit! I don't know how to comfort people. What would Antonio do? Wait, what he does rarely makes me feel better…** Romano mulled over possibilities for a few more seconds until he just decided to follow his gut instinct._

_ Romano placed one of his darker hands on the other colony's shoulder, as Canada did for him earlier during his dark time. "H-Hey, quit moping, you look pathetic… and… your not being ignored or unnoticed or none of that shit right now. Want to know why?" Canada turned to face his comforter. Romano took this as his sign to continue, "because I am here right now talking to you, not some stupid block of air. All of those other people can go fuck themselves. And… you can call me Lovino… if you want. But not Lovi or any of that stupid shit or I'll stab you with a fucking spoon!"_

_ Wide-eyed Canada started at Romano… **No Lovino**, unbelieving this was happening. Within a split second, he was hugging Lovino with the force of a hungry Kumajirou. "Thank you Lovino, merci beaucoup." He released the flailing brunette with a large, genuine smile. "And you can call me Mathieu."_

_ What Mathieu didn't know was that Lovino made a promise to himself that he wouldn't forget Mathieu permanently. Temporarily, perhaps, as the blonde seems to have some type of anti-remembering aura. But never for good. Romano knows from personal experience with Nonno Rome what it is like to be left behind and ignored. He felt protective of the blonde and didn't want him to have to deal with that shit._

_ What Lovino didn't know was that he has just lifted the dark curtain that had been draped over the blonde's life. Lovino made Mathieu feel wanted. He gave Mathieu a sense of reality instead of the clouded meaninglessness there was before. This feeling would transcend for a long time._

_ What neither of the colonies knew was Spain and France clanking wine glasses together around the corner, congratulating each other on a plan-well-done._

Silence fell between the two nations, both unwilling to break the serenity. Because that would fall under the crime of disturbing the peace. But Romano, being the more likely of the two to end up in jail (and has before, but luckily being tight with the government has its perks), "When we were picking up those shards, did you have a sickening feeling that someone was watching us?"

"I don't really remember, perhaps it was the dust bunnies? But… is it ok if I start calling you Lovino again?"

Lovino wore a neutral expression but voiced his opinion, "Whatever Matthew, but I still have that spoon." The neutral expression morphed into a smirk.

Matthew laughed. He wished Lovino would join in. Another goal to add to his list. "Say Lovino," the name feeling dusty on his tounge, "What happened to us? Our friendship, I mean?"

"Hmmm, lets make a list shall we? First, that one week you spent in Spain was the only time we were really able to see each other in person."

"Then there was the 7 Years War shortly after. I became an English Colony and Arthur and Spain hate each other."

"Not long after that I had my whole Italian Unification ordeal."

"Then the World Wars."

"So pretty much that fucked up shit called war sums it up quite nicely," Lovino finished.

"Oui. Eh, what time is it?" The café was nearly empty now.

Lovino took out his shitphone and scanned the little black numbers. "It is time for us to get our shit together unless we want Potato Bastard going World War V on our asses. Ten minutes till the meeting restarts."

The nation and a half quickly dispensed their garbage and fled out the exit of the Nostalgia Café. Talk about irony with the name and the events that just took place.

And who would have thought that the whole thing that started this friendship would be a mutilated vase and the thing that rejuvenated it would be a potato mutilations sketchbook. It seems these two have a fetish for mutilated things.

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><p>God, I love France. Why do people always kill him during those Truth or Dare fics? Seriously, look in any hole and you will see a dead France in it. :(<p>

Major head-cannon: Romano use to have lots of spasms when he was younger. Italy (the country, not Feli) has several fault lines (which are a major cause of earthquakes) and volcanoes, especially in the Southern half of the country for the faults and volcanoes. This tectonic activity of the land causes the spasms, as the nations are the personification of their land. These random spasms can account for Romano breaking of a lot of stuff when he was younger and less experienced in controlling the movements.

These two are first going to reform a strong friendship which will transfer over into romance. They are not going to be:  
>Romano: Ciao Canada~<br>Canada: Hi Romano~  
>Romano: You're cute, wanna have sex?<br>Canada: Sure!  
>Both: *kiss* *moan* *snuggle*<br>…WTF? I just don't see these two immediately jumping into a relationship. They are both the type of person who are careful about taking chances in the love department and want to be sure of their feelings before doing so.

Soooooo… This fic won't be updated till 2 weeks from now. Gonna begin work on that other fic I mentioned last chapter. :D


	5. Who pissed off Zeus this time?

Nope, not dead. Save your confetti.

So sorry I have not updated recently, but I have excuses!

I have good news and bad news, bad first. Something has come up: my parents have deemed fanfiction to be "weird and negative" and forbid me from going on this site. *Sighs*, this forbation will not happen, but it is going to cause irregular updating in the future. Another thing is that school decided to vomit enough work on my head to make Germany cringe in fear; however, this should breeze over my mid-May. Overall, I am **not** abandoning this story, just updating irregularly. That is better than not at all until mid-summer when I get my own laptop, non?

The good news, I have conjured up another little chibi moment as a barrier for all the knives you currently have aimed at my face due to the news above. Also because author notes as a whole are not really allowed…

**Hetalia Disclaimer Cheat Sheet:**

_Are you Hidekaz Himaruya?_

_**Yes:  
><strong>_Then you own Hetalia.

_**No:  
><strong>_Then you don't own Hetalia.

*Dons sleek, black sunglasses and points Tommy gun at all who reviewed, favorited, alerted, reads, or puts up with my horrible updating as of late* Hasta la pasta, babies~ *Pulls trigger and a flag that says 'Thank You ^.^' pops out*

**Warnings:** vulgar humor, language, fluff, slight historical inaccuracies… pretty mild pseudo-chapter…

eN**J**_**O**__**Y**_~

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><p>Chapter III.V: <em>Who pissed off Zeus this time?<em>

Thunder, lightning, wind, and rain tangoed together within the bleak, uniform clouds with lighting and thunder alternating their turn to lead in the dance of natural forces every few seconds.

Ok, who shook up Zeus' can of carbonated ambrosia? Perhaps someone should steal his lighting bolt to prevent these sublime dances of light in the sky from producing havoc on the countryside below.

While he was not planning grand theft bolt, curled up with his thighs pressed against his small chest was the pseudo-god Mathieu, using a veil of blanket to hind from the shitstorm outside. If one were to walk into the dwellings of the Canadian, they would see a quivering mass atop the dark brown bed with light green linens. If one were to poke said mass, they would hear a squeal (later denied that it was emitted) and witness the young boy proving that gravity, in fact, still works as he fell to the floor startled. This is exactly what happened as a particularly large clap of thunder rippled through the upset atmosphere.

Rubbing his sore bum, Mathieu scurried back onto the bed and replaced his shield of thin cloth from the 60 mph (97 kmh) winds and 100 million volt lighting bolts outside.

The blonde whined at his current predicament. He didn't have Kumamonalisa or maple syrup to ease his restlessness. He didn't have sleep at God-knows what time in the very early morning (or would it be very late at night?). He didn't have anyone he could turn to for solace as he did not want to disturb their rest. The only thing he did have was his thoughts, raging like the storm outside.

_What if the house floods?_

_What if the wind blows the crops in here?_

_What if a bolt his me and turns me into a smoldering pile of charcoal more burnt than the food his brother complains about?_

_What if something happens to Papa, Spain … Lovino…_

Immediately banishing those thoughts of sorrow to the recesses of his conscious mind, Mathieu instead decided to think about how with his native tribes in this weather, before Europeans began exploring the New World, he would be repeating sacred words to the Thunderbird. Though he now thinks of the idea of some type of god-bird flying through the sky with some of the first flying snakes that produced lighting poking out of its feathers is ludicrous, there was still some part of Mathieu that believed in the legend, and, in response, the blonde decided to mutter the few words he did remember from the hazy past prayers. Begging the creature, or whatever was causing this, to stop.

At least Spain won't have the need to clean his house anytime soon.

With the passing of another internally judged ten minutes, sadly the only change is that he was pretty sure Spain now lacks one tree in his yard, for the colony could scarcely see the fallen sapling's roots sticking out of the ground in a tangled mess of organic matter and mud. The earlier, sloppy praying did nothing to bridge the empty pit of fear grasping and clawing at the blonde's insides. Only another person could remove the hold and patch up the slash marks.

And Mathieu was going to get that comfort even if he had to wake someone up late (early) at night (in the morning). However, such a task is easier said than done for it would probably require more noise than the amount of weird noises he has heard from Papa's bedchamber under the moon, considering the storm has yet to wake anyone up. If they were woken up, Mathieu was positive they would have just a small ounce of good parenting skills to check up on their charges during a land-hurricane.

Letting his mind ponder over what those noises could be for a brief second, he decided that it would probably be in his best interest to not know. It was more important at the time to know who he has to use his, supposed, cuteness factor on in order to get in that person's bed… _Why do I feel that would be something Papa would say?_

Spain was not an option. While the guy was nicer than sliced bread, he did not know the optimist well enough, so that left Papa… and Lovino.

The timid colony has crawled into the Parisian's bed before, several times being out of the fear induced from culture shock from when he first saw France. But even though the space beside the Frenchman was safe territory for plutonic intimacy, Mathieu found himself thinking more about the spit-fire brunette.

It would be awkward, but they are friends now or, at least, heading in that direction. And it is perfectly fine for friends to sleep in the same bed, right?

With this thought dominating, small, pale hands, to be calloused with work, threw the soft blankets behind their controller as thin legs, to be empowered with time, met the ground. If he didn't go now, he never would.

The colony ejected all sound from his steps (not like the storm would have let anyone hear his pitter patter) and made his way down the stairs from his 3rd floor room to Lovi's (sometimes he calls the other colony that in his mind because the blonde has an affinity with nicknames) second floor one; jumping every time yellow flashed in the windows. He remembers where it was because the other colony gave him a brief tour; much more helpful than Spain's which mostly consisted of the Spaniard's non-sense rambling about the different types of tomatoes. Mathieu is now proficient in telling the differences between globe tomatoes and cherry tomatoes.

There were only a few candelabras lit, casting ominous shadows that looked poised to pounce on everything unfortunate enough to near. Standing outside of the dark wooden doorway, Mathieu was about to knock when doubt, instead of the shadows sitting in the corner, pounced.

_What if he won't let me stay… or even let me in?_

His doubts were mowed over as the scene from yesterday played out. Lovino and him were in the tomato gardens, collecting the plump identity-confused red spheres for dinner. Lovino was instructing him on how to tell a perfectly ripe one from a 'shitty' one when several squirrels wandered apparently a little to close for Lovino's comfort. Without delay, almost instinctively, he pushed the younger behind him and started chucking the deemed shitty tomatoes, with surprisingly good accuracy, at the squirrels turning their fur red as they clambered away. The Italian probably de-virginized both the squirrels' and Mathieu's ears that day. The only reason behind the brunette's actions that Mathieu got was a blush and some muttering about Spanish squirrels being evil.

Even though Lovino overreacted to the 'demon squirrels from Spain,' the actions he took proved to the blonde that Lovino would protect him and quell most of his apprehension. Lets just hope he will do the same thing against something that uprooted a tree.

Set with an internal mantra that Lovi, his friend (he is still ecstatic to be saying that), cares, he twisted the brass knob—who would hear his quiet voice in this scenario?— and pushed forward into the abyss of potential haven.

To find a quivering mass atop the queen-sized bed donned in deep reed sheets.

Well then.

Mathieu padded his way over to the other youth, feet completely silent on the wooden floor, and, as to not frighten the brunette, gently called his name. Immediately getting a response, which the glasses-wearing youth did not expect, he (once again) noted his unfathomability of how Lovi seemed to hear him on the first time, while usually his first _few_ times fell on deaf ears.

Lovino, not expecting any noises other than rumbling, toppled to the floor when he hallucinated hearing Mateo's (he calls the blonde that in his head, but not out loud because then it would be taken as some type of pet name) voice. _There is no way he was in here_, the brunette countered the positive side of his conscious.

But upon untangling his lanky form from the clutches of his previous poor protection, his gold infused hazel eyes glanced upward—as he was still on the floor in a heap—to the unique rare in this section of the world violet infused indigo eyes of Mateo's. _Oh shit, he really is here. And he just saw my blunder._

A part of Lovino was relieved upon having another soul, especially Mateo's as Antonio annoys him and France (somewhat) scares him, within his vicinity. The brunette would go to hell and back before he admitted it, but this storm scared him more than the giant fucking ax Antonio keeps in his closet. He was much too proud and stubborn and decided to grit his teeth and go through this storm alone without seeking someone else. Unlike Mathieu, apparently.

"W-What the hell are you doing here?" Lovino demanded, hoping his cryptic anger distracted from his authentic embarrassment of the situation and excitement of the blonde being here, as he stood up. _I just hope I don't have a blush…_ Sadly, Lovino did, but it was just dark enough for Mathieu to not see it.

"I-I was… no, never mind, I really shouldn't have come here," Mathieu made to turn and high-tail it out, but a hand prevented his escape from the shame of thinking this was a good idea.

"Hey, wait! You. You are already here, so why don't you just spit out why you broke into my room?" Lovino already had a feeling he knew the answer, for he considered several times of doing the same thing.

Lovino's hand, already slightly calloused from working in the fields, was still on his arm as Mathieu turned back to the demanding colony. "Just… It's just," _Just say it Matt._ "The storm scares me and I was hoping that I could stay here with you. But, that was a bad idea. I should go find Papa…" he hastily expelled in one breath. Mathieu thought he might have to repeat that more at length and volume, but Lovi seemed to have understood as the holding brace on his arm loosened into more of a comforting one.

This provided Lovino with the perfect opportunity, he can now get Mateo to stay and they could help each other with their common fear of being struck by yellow zigzags. Best of all, he won't have to directly go out and ask for him to stay, as the seemingly rosy blonde before him took care of that pride-crushing work. "I'm not letting you go into Wine-Bastard's bed; he might try something."

Taking that line as a yes in Lovinian, Mathieu was calmed that he wouldn't have to go to Papa, as much as the loved his flamboyant caretaker, "Oh, no. Francis is not like that… He only unconsciously g-gropes me in my sleep when I am next to him." _Which is kind of annoying._ As an after thought of the manners he was taught, "Thank you Lovino," the blonde colony sincerely thanked.

Lovino was gracious that the one before him seemed to understand his way of saying things. Instead of blowing the thanks off, Lovino accepted it. In his own way. "Yeah, whatever." _Your welcome, Mateo._ "Lets just get some sleep, I'm fucking exhausted." Lovino let go of Mathieu's thin arm, certain that he wouldn't run off and started dispensing pillow rations with the blonde following suit. As an after thought, "and make sure you stay on your side of the bed!" causing a smile to grace Mathieu's face (that Lovino would not see due to facing the other direction) from his overdramatic antics.

The two colonies lied down underneath the warm linens, the current brawl between Zeus and Thunderbird outside now a surreal dream, as the small strip of skin on one of their legs feather touched the other's leg, letting the both of them know that their counterpart was still there. Providing the sanctuary the both of them were seeking.

* * *

><p>The sketchbook of potato mutilations will be posted in this story. Have any suggestions? Feel free to let me know via PM or review. Who knows, you may see your suggestion in the list. ;D<p>

The outline for the next chapter is done and will be named _Closet 69_. Interpret that any way your little heart desires. (P.S. All done with flashbacks)


	6. Closet 69

**Disclaimer:** I don't always write a fancy disclaimer, but when I do, they somehow say I don't own Hetalia.

**Warnings: **vulgar humor, language, sexual themes, implied smut

Thank you, gracias, merci, danke, grazie, tack, dank u, obrigado, takk, kiitos, gratias, tak, þakka þér, 谢谢, mulţumesc, ありがとう, спасибо for the reviews, favorites, alerts, reads, and putting up with my poor updating.

**Translations:  
><strong>_Italian:  
><em>Fratello- brother  
>Fratellone- big brother<br>Fratellino- little brother  
>Va bene- okay<br>Per favore- please  
>Ciao- bye hi

_Spanish:  
><em>Amiga- female friend (used as an insult in the story)  
>Soy más grande que tú- I am biggerlarger than you  
>Puta- bitch<p>

Only the Italian comes from translators (not Google). If my Spanish is incorrect, feel free to correct me.

**Note:** This is rated M for _language_. No smut for you… Yet.

Don't not enjoy~

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><p>Chapter IIII: <em>Closet 69<em>

Frustrated pen scratching and humming lamps were the only sounds within the double-bedded hotel room as the embodiment of Southern Italy penned away his vivid imagination. Working under a small lamp, because hotel rooms never seem to have ceiling lighting even in the UN, did nothing to improve his crabby mood. And meetings consisting of nations with the mentality of two year olds always made the day brighter. Like sparkly rainbow cornflakes skinny-dipping in puddles of unicorn spit. Maybe drawing this potato being bulldozed by a curling puck will lighten the mod from iron to feathers. Lovino snorted at the idea; _Mateo has some pretty fucked-up funny ideas._

Tapping his pen against the black desk, Lovino was able to let his mind wander to his blonde … friend? … for the first time in two days. Several European Union meetings, North American Free Trade Agreement meetings, and Feliciano's general clinginess after his ditching ("But fratello! I thought you got kidnapped by the tomato fairy!) kept the both of them separated and busy both physically and mentally.

Lovino, the luckiest man ever, was recalling the conservation between the Canadian and himself about completely irrelevant, small things when he heard his brother before he entered the room. The doorknob to Feliciano's and his shared room jiggled as if some useless idiot didn't know what to do.

"Vee~ Fratello! This knob doesn't like meeeeee! It won't open!" the door whined.

Oh look. Lovino was right.

Exasperated, Lovino released something in between a growl and a sigh (a sirowl) and contemplated just leaving his brother out there. But then he would whine. And carry on. And go to Potato Bastard for help when he could do just as good of a job.

Knock. Knock. Knock. "Fratello!" Knock. Knock. Knock. "Fratello!" Knock. Knock. Knock. "Fratello!" Knock.

And do that! Wherever the hell he learned that has a new date with the fishes. "I'm coming! Just stop that obnoxious shit!" The knock x3 Fratello!'s turned into Feliciano's babblings as the brunette opened the door which, as soon as it was open, the shorter Italian launched himself at his southern half.

"Yay, you saved me from the door! I was about to bribe it open with my emergency pasta." The unamused half-nation retreated back into the room as the hug parasite attached to him continued, moving with his brother. "I never liked doors. They always separated people. Vee~ Fratello, you haven't been talking to yourself again like two days ago have you?"

Lovino's patience for his brother ended then and there. _How the fuck could he not have seen it was Mateo I was talking to, not myself!_ Lovino was not as mentally disturbed as a certain Englishman. But nearing. "Feliciano!" The auburn half-nation's supply of warmth peeled him of the taller half-nation, "I'm not crazy! That's England's niche. I already told you, I was talking to Ca. Na. Da. that day. And no, before you ask, just because it contains the word 'da' does not mean it is some type of Russian weapon. Canada is a nation, just like you and me!" Lovino's lungs were completely depleted from his outcry and his cheeks were red with frustration from trying to get it through his brother's thick, denser than Spain's… no, no one is denser than him. That would break the universe. _Oh wait, Feli is taking again._

Growing quiet and solemn, "Ve-e. Fratellone. I asked Germany about this," start air quotes, "Canada," end air quotes, "and he said I was talking nonsense again. And he is the smartest person I know! After you of course fratello!" Feliciano flashed his brother a charm-your-pants-off smile married with puppy-dog eyes.

Lovino was about to ask his brother, whom can be a manipulative little bastard when he wanted, when he remembered he left Feli's birthday present out in the open on the desk behind Feliciano. _Shit._ He needed to distract Feliciano. Which was easier than a drunken Denmark.

Quickly, Lovino, putting forth a shocked expression, pointed out the window to his left, "Look Feli, flying purple pasta!" Ever dense, Feli skipped to the window; therefore, giving Lovino his chance to scamper to the chair, grab the sketchbook, shove it up his shirt, and press his back to the desk side to prevent gravity from sliding it down. Lovino suddenly giving birth to a notebook would cause some awkward silence and a curious Feli.

"There is no pasta out here! Only two birds dancing!" Feli pouted as he returned his attention to the awkwardly posing Lovino, which Feli said nothing about as he childishly pointed, "You lied!"

"And the cake is a lie too, sue me. Now what is it you wanted? You never use your puppy-dog eyes unless you want something."

Feli veed, which he only does when he is extremely excited, nervous, or frustrated. Or sometimes randomly, the half-nation is just weird. He sat down on the bland-colored bed which was an eyesore for both artistic Italians, "What makes you think I am trying to convince you?" The eyes were back to doing what they do best, bringing the most hardened of people to their knees. Not even Germany could escape their siren-like abilities, but unfortunately for the Northerner,

"Cut the shit Feli."

Lovino has had decades to build up a tolerance, abet, it took him an internal debate and eye contact avoidance to deny.

Running a hand through his silky dark chocolate hair, "Look Fratellino, stop beating around the bush before I beat you with the bush and just tell me what is on your mind, va bene?"

"You're no fun Fratello."

"Again, sue me."

"But court rooms are so boring!"

"Feliciano." The smaller Italian, finally reading the atmosphere for once, could see the patience level in his southern half plummet lower than England's tolerance level.

"Ve-e. It is the day before the last day of the meeting."

Gears spinning, it took a couple seconds for Lovino to understand what Feliciano meant. The evening before the last meeting day during long symposiums (meaning more than two days) was often reserved for large groups of nations plus one ex-nation renting out whole bars and getting piss drunk in the process. To survive these long meetings, alcohol was as vital as a rape whistle; their philosophy was no one does anything on the last day of the meeting, so why not nurse their hangovers then instead of on a plane where the changes in pressure might explode their heads like watermelons. These excursions for the liquid that has destroyed the pride of many are expected by most nations, so they usually plan the most useless, mundane, and simple of topics (such as the various forms of dairy farming) to be discussed on the last day, fully expecting the only thing to be accomplished is the calling of a plumber for the vomit-smelling bathrooms.

"Feli, the last time we went to one of those excuses to cause anarchy, Finland wound up duct taped to the Eiffel Tower, fifteen nations were forced to join Alcoholics Anonymous, and England and France finally fucked after decades of sexual tension. If you were exposed to that type of shit then the few brain cells you have left would die." _So what if Feli is really not as innocent as he looks, he is still an idiot with no common sense. I don't want him getting too harmed, a little maiming is ok as the dumb-butt should learn __not__ to pet the geese, but Switzerland being even more trigger-happy when under the influence is too much. He already has some type of love of shooting Feli sober. _Besides, it was Lovino's job as the stereotypical over-protective older brother to shield his younger from bastards. Which is hard as Feliciano is a nation and it is his job to interact with other nations.

"But-but, fratello! Big brother France won't be supplying the drinks so there is a smaller chance of them tasting funny and making everyone loopy! Plus Ludwig will be there—"

"You're not helping your argument."

"—and he won't let it get too crazy!" The Mediterranean nation pleaded all in one breath and would have continued had he not noticed the weird position his brother was standing in, "Say fratello, why are you standing like that?"

To change the subject off of himself, "Who is all going to be there?"

"Oh, um… Hopefully us, Luddy, Gilbert, Antonio, France, Russia, England, Hungary, Austria, Denmark, Norway would have come, but he said he'd rather drink sulfuric acid, Kiku, Greece, Turkey, and America." Because that group of people shoved in one room are as calm as bunnies.

To keep track, Feliciano was counting everyone on his fingers and was forced to continue on his toes after ten. "Ve, so please, per favore, can we go!" eyes wide with anticipation.

Lovino was about to deny Feliciano, but his interest perked at the mention of America being there. Matthew is America's brother. More than likely, Matthew will be there. Jackpot. "Alright, we can go."

"But fratello, per fav—wait—you said yes? That easily? Ve! Maybe you going crazy is a good thing!" clapped Feliciano.

"I'm not going ape-shit, you bastard!"

"Hug therapy!" Feli launched himself at this southern half then started to pull him out the door; the abandoned sketchbook falling lonely to the carpeted floor from Lovino's movement. "We've got to get going, the get together starts in ten minutes!"

Face palming at Feliciono's complete disregard for time, "Feli, look at a fucking clock every once in a while. It would save many from headaches."

Time Shift Sponsored By Doctor Who

_Ugh. Why the hell did I agree to this? Sitting at some shitty American bar, drinking some shitty American beer that is more of a lethal ingestion, and listing to the shitty conservations of other nations._ Lovino downed another gulp of beer (the bartender gave him a weird look when he asked if they served wine) while he continued his pity party like the pathetic loser he was at the moment. _That Canadian bastard didn't even show his face._ And Lovino did not scan the bar scene eight times to make sure he did not miss the elusive nation, and he certainly did not look hopefully over to the doors every five minutes. Bored and wanting to stop his misfortune from going Godzilla on his mind, Lovino decided to eavesdrop on the two nations closest to him, Denmark and Antonio.

"—ah, but I bet mine's bigger, taco eater!"

"No way! Mine is much bigger than yours is, amiga!"

A rosy hue blossomed on Lovino's cheeks. _They weren't really talking about…_

"Hell no! I measured mine and it was longer than the Nile!"

"Oh yeah, well, mine is longer than… The Amazon! Beat that!"

_Oh fuck no_

"Pretty sure that is an exaggeration. Mine is bigger, bottom line. And I can even show you!

"No! Soy más grande que tú. And I can prove it!"

The warmth coming from Lovino's cheeks threatened to bake the world, forget the Sun in five billion years. _I have to get out of here._ "Gah! Perverts!" Quickly scampering to the bathrooms to calm down, Lovino did not hear the last remarks:

"Like you can prove your axe is bigger than mine!"

"But it is! The blade itself is over a foot (~30 cm) long!"

By the time the flustered Italian reached the bathrooms, he had calmed down enough to blame the redness of his cheeks on the alcohol, and he massaged them to further the process.

Standing outside the male's restroom, the brunette did not anticipate the ruthless shove to his side that rammed him pass the forbidden door into the adjacent room. There were three things that made this bathroom foreign to the male nation: one, there were no urinals; two, there was a tampon machine; and three, there was a line for the stalls. Consisting of females. Whom were all staring at him.

The only thing that was bigger than his embarrassment was the loud, familiar, feminine voice behind him, "Everyone, OUT!" The occupants of the bathroom wasted no time vacating themselves from their overly-used mirrors and stalls, somehow running that fast in their tight cloths and high-heels. Lovino tried to make his escape from the psycho-chick by running away with the other women, some of which Lovino would be glad to flirt with later, but a strong grip on the back of his black button-down shirt prevented his freedom. "Now where do you think you're going, sweetie?"

Only one nation had the balls to call him sweetie.

"H-Hungary?" Lovino did not like how his voice trembled. She was just a girl! That emptied a whole group of women from their precious bathroom time with only two words.

Slyly, the Hungarian positioned Lovino so that she was in between him and salvation. "What. What the flying-fuck is going on?" he glared.

"Oh sweetie, I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to ask a favor." The wicked smirk and gleaming green eyes plastered on the nation's face before him did nothing to ease Lovino's stomach. Some little cricket was telling him that being a hippo's dentist would be safer than whatever the bipolar nation was scheming.

Lovino snorted, "A favor? More like a demand unless I want to find my doom early." He was usually a lot nicer to females, but Hungary can be a merciless bitch. Especially when she was in pursuit of a goal, however mundane, which was the sole reason Lovino was half-complying.

"You truly are a lot smarter than people give you credit for, Romano." She bopped his nose.

_Nghn, quit treating me like a little kid._ He questioned if his Italian Fleeing Abilities were up to par with scooting out the door before Hungary pulled out her pan, surely hidden somewhere within the folds of her ivory and green dress, and whacked him upside the head, but not even Feli with pasta dangling in front of him that is tied to a stick duct tapped to his back could match that speed. Prussia clocked it at 1.03 seconds/pull out.

"Just spell out what you want Hungary. I want out of this bathroom." As he crossed his arms and intensified his glare, the overpowering scent of margarita breeze and flower fresh perfumes were bothering the darker brunette's nose.

"Fine, Fine. You're so impatient." Hungary sighed, then perked up again into a smile. Bipolar. "Ok, here is the favor! I need you to have passionate sex with Spain while I record it!" She stated as if there was _nothing_ weird about it.

Confused and unable to digest the information immediately, Lovino gapped wide-eyed at the green eyed nation; his mouth kept opening and closing like a door (fuck you fish). "What?"

"I just told you! I want you to let Spain fuck you—"

"Stop! Stop, just stop!" While avoiding the curl, Lovino started pulling at his hair and pacing around the bathroom in a circle. Italian curses became more predominant than the graffiti over the walls. _How could she? Just what? Gross! Hell no!_

"Romano? Are you ok?" Hungary asked, concerned for the Italian's sanity.

"Ok. Am I ok?" the madly blushing, hysterical man barked. "You just suggested that me and Antonio, the man who raised me, should… Fuck no! Why do people always assume we are like that?" Frustrated, Lovino took a large, deep breath and looked Hungary directly in the eyes, hell-bent on clarifying his relationship to his former caretaker.

"Shit, Antonio considers me his little brother and I consider him my older brother. We have less sexual desire for each other than a clam and a whale!"

"But—"

"No buts, Pan Bitch! The only type of relationship him and I have is completely plutonic. That is what it always has been and always will be! We agreed on this a long time ago. Dating or sex would be just… plain weird because we consider each other family. And incest is not our thing.

"The guy is really affectionate so it may seem like more, but… no. Just no. We are not compatible in the least bit. The guy is way to fucking stupid and obnoxiously happy for me and I am way too much of a dick for him. The dumbass never understands my constant sarcasm… I. I love Antonio, but _only_ as an older brother."

"It's just one—"

"No!" Lovino needed to change the subject. "Why… Why don't you pair up Spain with… Austria? It is obvious those two bastards like each other.

"Spain and Roderich…" She pounded her fist on her other hand. "Why didn't I think of that! Roderich once told me that he enjoys the Spaniard's company which means he must be in love with him!"

The peninsula nation was about to comment that 'enjoying company' and 'in love' were two completely different things, but then he remembered the long tirades his tanned friend would go on about the stupid Austrian. Such examples were how relaxing his piano music was, especially if he joined in with his guitar, how cute his mole was, and how fine his ass was. When this happened, Lovino usually used the old 'I have to piss' excuse to get away from the love-struck fool.

"Sure, whatever. Good luck." Making to step around the delusional female nation muttering shenanigans to herself, the half nation was once again caught by a vice-grip hold on the back of his shirt. What? Was their a sign on his back that says 'Grab Me'? Better his back than a bit lower…

"Sweetie, I'm not done with you yet! It was your idea to hook up Spain and Austria, so you have to help me get a steamy tape of the both of them getting it on."

_What the flying-fuck is wrong with the woman. Does her time of the month turn her crazy?_

"Ok first off, eww. Second, whey the fuck would I help you?"

"One, yaoi is not eww. Two has two answers. A, you do care about Antonio and want him happy. With Roderich. B, if you don't help, then those pictures of you in drag at the last ex-Spanish colonies benefit will leak out to the other nations."

"What the hell! You're blackmailing me! And how do you know about those photos? Columbia was supposed to delete them all!"

"For me to know and you not to find out, deal?" She held put her hand as if he had a choice. Bitch.

"On two conditions. One, delete the photos. All of them. And two," Lovino cursed the great number of Italian explorers from the past that have made him curious, "Tell me why you need a porno in the first place."

Retreating her hand, "Since you are a part of the scheme now, I guess you deserve to know. Well, the Yaoi Masters Coming Altogether is holding a contest: who can make the biggest nose-bleed inducing tape! And the YMCA member that has the best will get an all expense paid spa weekend. Now, lets get going. I have an idea fresh in my head and I am sure Vietnam is tired of guarding the door!"

To ensure the safety and sanity of his fellow nations, Lovino made a mental note to email all of the male nations, minus Spain and Austria, that the Yaoi Maniacs Creating Anarchy (what all the male nations call the female nations little group) were on the prowl.

Time Shift Sponsored by H.G. Wells

Lunch time. The best time in the whole world whether you are a seven year old child or a seven hundred year old nation. Not that there really is a difference. Reference to the large Captain America belt buckle America is wearing.

What made this lunch break special was not laughing at all the hung-over nations, but it was time for Hungary and himself (unwillingly) to implement the bitch's plan. _God, how do I get stuck into these situations? Is this karma for me questioning your existence?_

Outside the meeting room, the long-haired nation was lecturing Lovino on his part in the shenanigan like a doting mother reminds their children to take out the trash. "Ok, now all you have to do is go get Spain and bring him to the 18th floor. Do you remember where on that floor?"

"Yes, how can I forget it mom? Now I am going, the sooner I bring the bastard the sooner I can leave." _Chigi! No wonder Feli grew up to be so dependent with someone like that taking care of him._

Mind occupied with where his scatterbrained friend could be, Lovino did not notice the other nation as he rounded the corner. It was like running into a hard wall as the Italian grunted form the force and would have collided with the floor if the person he ran into did not suddenly switch professions to being a cushion.

Annoyed and humiliated, Lovino had no idea who this path-blocking fucker was, but he (Lovino knew it was a he from the lacking softness in the chest region) discovered that they were taller than him. Curse you vertical challenges. They also had pretty nice body and muscles, not overly done like Potato Bastards, but still present. Fuck off, Lovino enjoys the arts even if it is in biological form.

Pushing up off the ground so he could get a better look at the soon-to-be-cursed-out poor soul beneath him, the smartass Italian reddened even further at who he ran into. And was currently hovering over. And was still staring at.

As every romance story needs that one cheesy, awkward scene where the two main characters show how clumsy they are by running into each other and toppling to the ground in each other's arms, it was one other than the flushed face of Matthew Williams Lovino was looking at.

While immediately finishing his push up, that is possible for Italians to complete thank you very much, the brunette morphed his shocked and embarrassed expression into one of annoyance. Despite truly feeling some frustration at the blonde for being a no-show last night, Lovino held out his hand (something he rarely does unless his thumb has met his teeth beforehand) for the Canadian; the abstinence of voice from both parties exponentially increasing the awkwardness.

Accepting the gesture, Matthew voted to shatter the veil of silence, "Thank you Lovino. And I am sorry about running into you."

"I don't know why your apologizing, some random draft must have pushed us into each other," Lovino blamed despite no windows being in the vicinity. The tall nation had a confused expression behind his glasses, _probably use to people just accepting his offer of taking the blame… Fucktards for taking advantage of him like that._ "But," he continued, "where the hell were you last night? Do you have any idea what I went through at the get together last night without anyone with half a brain cell to talk to?"

"Oh, yeah…" The Canadian was a little flustered, probably just from the aftershock of having a car-less Italian running into him. "My boss assigned extra work for me that night. But, I'm free now, so, if you are as well, maybe we could… go get some lunch again?" The hopeful expression on the blonde's face really made Lovino's next word hard to say.

"I can't." The immediate crestfallen look on Matthew's face made Lovino wish he could tell Hungary to go fuck herself. "B-But, damn it." Sighing and running a hand through his locks, "Look, I'm just a little occupied at the moment, but, I'll contact you later, ok? So don't go around having a shitty attitude, va bene?"

A small, authentic smile sprang onto Matthew's pale, pink lips coupled with a small laugh, "Alright, I'll clean up my attitude. But… good luck with what you are working on, hopefully it is legal."

_If only the blonde know what I was working on, but telling him that I am being blackmailed by a bipolar bitch on her period would not work out well with both his pride's and sanity's appearance._ So Lovino settled for the next best option, "Ciao, smartass."

As the nation and half nation parted ways, the latter heading towards the café where the Spanish idiot that started this whole fiasco most likely was, Lovino reflected on Matthew's parting words. _Mateo seems to be becoming less meek around me as we get to know each other better… He is a lot more witty than he lets on, but is still an apologizing-monkey. He seems to actually be growing a pair, but still stutters at times. Is my bad attitude influencing the, relatively, younger nation, or does he just act differently between people that he knows well and strangers…_ If the last thought is true, than it is a quality the Canadian and Italian share. However, he was unable to do any more reflecting as he was rudely interrupted by a coo.

"Looooviii! I can't believe you decided to willingly join Boss for lunch!"

Looks like Lovino found his target, whether that be a good thing or a bad thing has yet to be determined.

"Oh good, there you are." Lovino grabbed the sunnier than Philadelphia nation's wrist, "Come on bastard, we are going on a field trip."

Time Shift Sponsored By Bill And Ted

"Lovi! Let me ouuuut!" The fist bangs on the inside part of the door slightly rattled the numbers on the outside. It originally read 96 if the glue stains from the numbers previous positions were anything to go by, but the opportunity displayed right there was too much for one nation to handle so they switched the positions of the numbers creating the infamous Closet 69. Which Antonio was now whining and trapped within.

This amused Lovino to no end. "What was that Antonio? I couldn't hear you past my smirking."

It went boring lecture quiet within the closet till a small 'You're a puta' and a plop signaling the Spaniard sat down ruined that small moment of peace the younger half nation had. Sighing, "Look, you'll be happier than usual, if that is even possible, soon. Trust me, I don't want to be here anymore than you do."

"But your not the one standing next to a used condom!"

_Oh god, Hungary get your ass here now._

Speak of the devil and she will come in the form of a Hungarian dragging an Austrian.

"But Elizaveta, I don't see how going this way is a short cut to the piano room. In fact, I'm positive it is in the opposite direction," the brother-separating haughty bastard voiced.

Upon seeing the Italian, Hungary wasted no time. "Is he in there?" she asked to which Lovino nodded.

Austria asked what Romano was doing here and if who was where, but then he actually took notice of where he was. Alarmed, he vainly tried to detach himself from his captor, but it failed as she speedily opened the closet, getting a quick glimpse of Antonio poking the condom from earlier, and brutally shoved her ex-husband into the space.

Lovino couldn't be any happier. He disliked Austria. He disliked Austria for being a snobbish jackass, like many, but most of all, he loathed how the pansy kept his brother and himself separated for most of their lives and for making it a pain in the ass during their Unification. While Austria didn't deserve Spain, Piano Bastard made Tomato Bastard happy which brought the aristocrat down a level on Lovino's Fuck You Scale©.

If the prick made Antonio happy, then who was Lovino to deny him from that happiness he already has too much off? Not only would his former caretaker be getting some ass, but the ass would be annoyed like hell most of the time from Antonio's antics. Sweet revenge.

Lovino was, somehow, willing to give Mr. Mole one chance, but if he blows it, not finding the piano room would be the least of his problems.

"Eek! This is great footage! Go, Spain, go!" Oh right, the mentally disturbed one was still here. Glancing to his left, Lovino noticed that Hungary had stuffed tissues up her nose. Which were now red. Which was his signal to get the hell out of here.

"Those pictures had better be deleted."

Uninterested with the idle Italian, "Yeah yeah, I lied about having those, now shut up! Spain is now passionately tracing Roderich's lips and jaw line with his tongue!"

Lovino, now sprinkled red, hurried his process of fleeing from the moaning closet while muttering about what man-whores Spain and Austria were, how he was hungry, and how his entire lunch break was wasted. The partial-Sicilian pulled out his shit-phone and composed a simple text stating 'It's later' to a number he may or may not have gotten through pick-pocketing an unaware blonde nation.

* * *

><p><strong>List of Awesome (the late version)<strong>

_Trinn_- I like that you like. :) Thankies for review!

_Thing2BK_- Hope this has been living up to your expectations. 8D Thankies for review!

_Simple Shimmers_- France and Spain are close friends, so who says Mattie and Lovi can't be? They must have met each other at least once! And romance will be coming. Thanks for the review~

_Hanashi Tokoma_- Don't feel bad, I had trouble writing it. xD Thanks for the review x666!

_Watergoddesskasey_- Like Prussia! Thanks for the review!

_DestinyXUnknown1993_- Canada. The closest pervert. Thanks for the review and you're welcome~

_ALCsisMTY_- Well here it is! :D Hope you likie and thanks for the review!

_Akita Edu_- Yay three! Glad you liked the texting, Feli should learn to spell. Thanks for the review~

_Maiya123_- Bwhaha xD Jersey Shore!Germany. I have an idea of this later in the story, so keep your eyes peeled. ;D And credit will be given. Thank you for the review!

_Ottilia_- Wonder what Spain and France would say to that in the morning. }:3 Thank you for the review!

_silent neko-chan_- Wait no longer, thank you for the review!

_Mew I is Dinosaur_- Fluffy like baby ducks. And a special thank you goes to you for reviewing pretty much every chapter. _Special Thank You_~ c(^.^c) Oh, and a tip for weeding out the Hetalians (without being direct) is to ask them if they know what Prussia is. Most people don't know about Prussia, so the ones who do know may know what (or who) Prussia is from Hetalia. Or something like that. Good luck~

_MsAtrabilious_- Fuck yeah you can hug me! *hugs back* You did not creep me out, by the way, but maybe my sister considering her WTF face after I had her read your review. I laughed hyena style. Keep your sexy as well Ms. A and thank you for the review~ :D


	7. Eh, I'm Not A Lonely Hermit

**Disclaimer:** Believe whatever your little heart desires. :)

**Warnings: **vulgar humor, language, brief lewd language, lots of dialogue, long-ish A.N.

Hey you just reviewed me  
>Or read my story.<br>Is that a favorite?  
>I love you, maybe!<br>/shot

**Translations:**

_Italian:  
><em>buonanotte- goodnight  
>sì - yes<br>_French:  
><em>oui - yes

**Awesome Assembled:**

_Aurora rose1001_: *hands Nutella cybercake and a spork* Enjoy and thanks for the review~

_Alice Vargas_: The wonders that woman can work... And pretty much all the female nations + Japan are in the Yaoi club. (I guess. They were pretty much only a one-chapter thing) Thankies for the review!

_Mew I is Dinosaur_: Romano is too tomato-y to go insane. And maybe one could start wearing a black and white ribbon (such as the pink for breast cancer or red for AIDS) in honor of the fallen nations of old. Thank you for the review!

_psyco that laughs to loudly_: Join the Hetalia side. We have cookies and France. }:3 Thanks for the review, ohonhonhonhon~

_Psychotetic_: And I love your patience, enjoy the fruits of it~ Thanks for the review!

_Thing2BK_: It really melts my heart to hear that you are enjoying this and I will only stay awesome if you continue too. (fan of Sweet & Sour) Thanks for the review!

_Hetaliafangirl1113_: Feel the heat. ;) Thanks for the review and more yaoi is coming your way! (no pun intended)

**Note:** ... Hi there... So I could bullshit some excuse as to why I haven't updated in umpteenth weeks, so here I go. *pulls out white flag* **Really sorry about not updating in a reasonable manner, there is no true excuse.** But in lighter news, this is the first chapter typed from my own laptop, so updating in the future will be much easier.

Going back and looking at my past work, I have noticed several little errors. I don't have a beta, but from here on out I will try my best to catch those pesky, little errors.

Happy (belated) Birthday Canada and Happy Birthday America! May the cowboys riding moose while launching fireworks begin. }=P

Enjoy~

* * *

><p>Chapter IIIII: <em>Eh, I'm Not A Lonely Hermit<em>

Slowly, as to not spill any milk on his pristine dark red granite countertops, Matthew poured the cow juice into the Canadian flag-printed mixing bowl. Pulling a rubber spatula out of an ivory cabinet,`1 he began stirring the batter. From there, he dumped the batter into a greased pan, placed it in the oven, and turned it to the correct temperature.

Wait, pancakes in the oven? Bitch please, pancakes are not the only thing Matthew eats: that would be an unhealthy diet. These are brownies of the normal variety he is baking. If they were pancakes, Alfred would have smelled their sweet aroma and booked the first flight from Washington D.C. to Ottawa in hopes of obtaining and scoffing down a few (dozen) of the little, circular angels like a rabid hydra.

Matthew did not feel like replacing his front door. His generally unlocked front door. Again.

As he pulled at the pink band above his nape (who likes hair in their food other than lice?) keeping his shoulder-length blonde locks, the infamous question popped up: "Who are you?"

Sighing at the microwave-size polar bear, "I'm Canada, Matthew. The one who feeds you?" Despite knowing his identity, the prompt came out more like a question than a reply. Matthew seeks confirmation in his thoughts and actions because the toll of being told nothing in the past has caused its wear.

"Hungry."

Which alas, his fluffy companion was poor at giving, so the Canadian resorted to submissively reaching for a fish, caught by yours truly, out of the freezer and dropped the smelly, omega-infused meal into the white dog bowl in the corner of the kitchen.

"Eh, Kumacoma," Matthew started while scratching the top of the feasting bear's head, "My boss says that I need to try reaching out to other nations more, improve friendly relations and such. Perhaps I should ask Alfred for tips on how he makes so many friends... but then again... everyone thinks he is an asshole."

"Romano," Kumajiro argued.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," and stumbled off to go find Matthew's computer so he could Skype Tony. Hey, sleeping all the time occasionally gets a little boring and the two had contests of which blonde did the weirdest thing that week. Alfred's building a Barbie Doll Condo out of drywall took the cup last week.

"Lovi," he tested the newly familiar name, "yes, that could work!" But his moment of triumph was still not much louder than the slurping noises his Southern neighbor made. And nowhere near the screeching England made shortly after. And forget the German lungs that came later.

About ready to call the Prime Minister to relay and approve his new plan, _O Canada_ danced through his ears causing that swell of pride every nation feels when they hear their national anthem. Matthew didn't answer his cell for a few seconds just so he could listen longer, but indulging right now for too long would be rude to the other person; therefore, he answered without checking caller ID. A risky move with a wild, talkative American near.

"H-Hello. You've reached Matthew Williams." His voice reverted to its reserve nature due to his natural shyness of talking to a random stranger.

"Well, of course you're Matthew, damn it. My cell says so." The blonde didn't understand why, but he felt warmer when the other snapped this.

Upon realizing that it was Lovino on the other end, Matthew's distant persona melted into the warm front that only people close to him witness. He also questioned whether people were gaining psychic abilities because he was just thinking of Lovino when the person of his thoughts called or... _Damn, I need to get out more and stay away from Alfred._

"Maple-Brains, you need to speak up some, I can't hear you."

"Oh, sorry. I wasn't saying anything." _Maybe if I lighten the atmosphere, he seems stressed and I need to convince him that we should start having more friendly relations._ "But, isn't your cell a little shitty to be saying stuff?" Sucking on his bottom lip, the blonde hoped his naturally snarky sense of humor would still appease the brunette.

"Heh, it's so shitty it's mailing address is the toilet."

A lightened expression found its way onto Matthew's face at discovering that Lovino's love of wit hasn't changed despite it being less than three weeks since he last saw the half nation.

"... but I didn't call you to talk about toilets," Lovino continued, "Look... Maple Bastard...," (Judging by the tone of his voice, he seemed unsure about adding that last part.), "um, you owe me!"

While rubbing his chin (a subconscious habit picked up from Francis), Matthew racked his brain as to what Lovino could possibly be talking about. "I... do?"

"Sì, remember when you left me at the bar during the last meeting?"

"Oh." The blonde did recall that incident, but decided to hold his tongue in saying it was not exactly his fault. He was curious as to where Lovino was going, "oui."

"Well, that whole scenario was a bitch. And now you should let me stay at y-your place for a few days as compensation." He stated the bold request nervously.

Matthew almost dropped his phone from shock. _Lovi called me. Lovi wanted to spend time with me. Canada, the most uninteresting country in the world. And not just that, but in my own homeland._ Matthew managed to avoid letting the whirlwind of thoughts affect his speech. No need to sound like a desperate schoolgirl. "Y-yeah, that sounds like fun, Lovino."

"I don't give a fuck if... wait. You actually agreed?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I? My boss has been wanting me to improve my international relations and we could spend more time to-together. But! That is only if you want. I m-mean, if you don't want to come, I u-understand and-"

"Hey Matt," Lovino monotoned.

"Yes," Matthew squeaked.

"Quit contradicting yourself."

"I'm sorry." The only reply the Canadian got was a sigh.

"Look you sorry-happy idiot, yes I want to come over, don't be delusional. And, my boss wants me to improve my relations as well, for some damn reason. My brother already does a fine fucking job at that."

Matthew could feel the inferiority complex creeping through the plastic phone, and he did not like the drab atmosphere that came about Lovino (even through technology) when he was down on himself.

Dr. Williams is in the office.

"But, you certainly talk on the phone better than North Italy." A simple, yet meaningful gesture to the Italian.

Silence took over the other line for so long that Matthew feared the other hung up, though that wouldn't have been the first time someone has hung up on him. "Yeah," Lovino defeatedly replied, "but Feliciano is an idiot. Chigi, what days are you free?"

Remedy unsuccessful. Inferiority Complex 1-0 Canada.

Glancing at his relatively bare calendar, he listed a few sets of dates that would work and they created a five day period at the end of the month for their extended sleepover. Hopefully Matthew will have the pillows armed.

"Eh, Lovino. Are you doing anything important right now?" Matthew gingerly questioned.

"Yes. Sleep. It is one-fucking-o'clock here, buonanotte.

_Oh right, time differences forever trolling the world._ "Good night, Lovino."

"Sure, and..." Lovino's speech sunk to a whisper, "and see you soon." The shrill you-just-got-hung-up tone vibrated from the speakers, and Matthew swore it kept on saying 'haha, bitch' over and over again. No more brownie batter at seven pm.

Smiling blissfully at the air, "yeah, see you soon." Realization dawned on his brain and in his eyes as he straitened from his position of leaning on the counter, focusing on the untidy kitchen and living room. Mt. Dishville stood proudly in the white sink, Kumahontas' sheded hair gave his originally red sofa red and white cow patches, he has yet to pay his electric bill. True guests (Alfred doesn't care and Francis whines about everything) have not walked through his front door in so long that he didn't bother keeping his house in hotel conditions; just the minimal amount of cleaning needed to not provoke the neighbors (nice people, they are) into thinking he was dead.

It wasn't that he was lazy, per say, but Matthew liked the green, fleece blanket just thrown over the side of the couch and the cup of water on top of the television; these small messes made the place more of a home instead of a house.

Though that Lady Gaga 'love note' needed to go. _Stupid Alfred and his practical jokes... I guess that is just another thing we have in common. Stupid siblings._

Well, he best get to work, but first...

_'Hey, this is your friendly neighborhood Heroman, Alfred Freedom Jones speaking! So leave a message and-_

_Never gonna give you up.~  
><em>_Never gonna let you down.~  
><em>_Never gonna run around and,  
><em>_Desert you.~  
><em>_Never gonna make you cry.~  
><em>_Never gonna say goodbye.~  
><em>_Never gonna tell a lie and,  
><em>_Hurt you.~'_

Blankly, Matthew stared at his phone, thoughts ranging from _did I just get Rick Rolled?_ to _Alfred, your middle name is Francis, not Freedom_.

Not two seconds later, Matthew's muscles tingled from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet as his phone sang again. Caller I.D., the prank-block of all prank callists, showed that it was 'Heroic Pants' calling. Snorting at the inside joke (he was listed as 'Frozen Hat' in Alfred's phone), the blonde answered the call from his perky neighbor, remembering to keep the device several centimeters away from his ear.

As if he was at a hockey game and the team he bet on was losing, "'Sup Mattieeeee! Sorry I missed your call bro-mo, but I was trying to not fall off of Rainbow Road!" Alfred bansheed.

"And you're answering now because you just fell off?"

"Right in the pride! So, what can Mr. Sexy Hero Man do for you this fine morning?"

"First off, please, think of the children and never use that phrase again," Matthew, mortified yet amused, chuckled. Typical shameless Alfred. "And second, look at a clock, it is evening."

"Oh shit it is... oh well! And, is the lonely hermit jelly?"

"Eh, I'm not a lonely hermit!" Courage coursed through the Canadian, for once he could be the one bragging about doing something social. And be telling the truth, though Alfred could always tell when he was lying. Maybe he could get Lovino to give him more lying lessons so he could freak out Alfred better into thinking he is being harmed by a moose. Or something. "I am having a friend over, and not the Wilsons from next door, but another nation friend that is not Francis for non-business things at the end of the month," he smugly declared. Hey, Matthew doesn't get to boast very often and any self-esteem boost that becomes available should be soaked up.

Alfred let loose a whistle, still as loud as a fire truck to Matthew's sensitive ears, "Whoa, look out world, we have a badass over here!"

"Loser Hoser."

"Haha, I'm just pulling your leg, bro-sticks. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you're venturing out of your igloo. So, who is the unfortunate nation that has to deal with Snarky Sharky?"

Instead of starting an argument that would evolve into trivial name calling and concluding with Matthew winning by using his super-nag trump card, Matthew decided to be straightforward with Alfred. Because any other way would blow right over Nantucket. "It's South Italy."

Matthew made a mental note a while back at the café to refer to the Italies as such because he felt Lovi would feel detached by receiving little to no recognition for being half of Italy with the title Romano. He empathizes with the Mediterranean nationette because many people associate himself unequally with Alfred when they are actually separate. So the inverse, being thought of as separate and unequal when they are actually connected, must sting just as much.

Only the sound of karts speeding past Alfred held, unnerving the Canadian. The Southerner was never this quiet... unless...

"Wha' tah fuck?"

He was about to explode into little shards of irrational paranoia.

In a soothing, collected voice, Matthew tried to get Alfred to calm, but his voice was drowned out by Alfred's loud, nonsense babble-talk which gains a heavy southern accent when truly pissed. Because his speech, mostly consisting of strings of what is this shit instead of threats against the Italian, only contained a light accent, Matthew concluded he was not Cold War angry. A good sign, it took Matthew weary hours and buckets of ice cream to calm Alfred down during that period and no repetition is wanted nor needed.

Expelled, Matthew saw no other way to bring Alfred back except for appealing to his immaturity.

"Tits."

The y'alls, dropping of the g's, and colorful slang morphed into little giggles which elevated into full-scale, upbeat brawling. "You said tits! Hahaha!" Matthew, rolling his eyes at Alfred's predictability, could just picture the American coloring all red from lack of oxygen, rolling on the floor with his eyes bugging out, and pointing at the phone in an attempt to point at him. And maybe releasing a little urine if he had soda recently.

"Hmm, yes I did. Can we have a conversation now without you going all cowboy? Why do you hate South Italy?"

"Well, it's not that I hate him; I haven't really dealt with the dude in recent years, mostly his nicer brother." (Matthew frowned here.) "I mean, he's not internally evil. Like the Mexican Commie or Arthur's scones, but, he's bad news!"

"Please explain, eh."

"Ok, so get this bro-street," Alfred gossiped, "It was some time during the early twentieth century. Man were those times fun... Anyway, I apparently, though no idea how and probably not my fault in the first place, ended up pissing him off at a World Summit. And he sent his fucking Mafia after me! The guy is just permanently in the loony bin wrapped up in bat-shit insanity, Mattie. I don't want you getting fucked!"

For a split second, Matthew's French side took over at Alfred's last sentence. _Damn you bawdy brain. And Francis._ "It touches me that you do care about my health Al ("I don't know why I should care about your health, it is free!"), but I am positive that South Italy had a valid excuse for... extracting revenge? You do have a tendency to piss people off."

"Oh yeah! Well, in Soviet Russia, tendency pisses off you!"

"...Russia must be so proud of you."

"In Soviet Russia! ...I got nothing. Just watch your back for any black suits ok? And if you need me to kick his Mario-ass, I have a pipe ready! Just text me!"

It truly lightened Matthew to hear all the care his brother was pouring for him. Even if it came in the form of beating the shit out of his friend. "I'll keep that in mind, but I already have a lot of experience dealing with insane people."

"Who?"

"You."

"Hey! You're not being the stereotypical nice-Canadian-dude! Anyways, want to hear my new plans to save the world from pollution, bro-pow? It involve building a _giant_ robot out of duct tape and WD-40..."

Setting down the phone on the granite counter, Matthew allowed Alfred to indulge himself in egotistical glory while he 'listened.' If he hung up now, the American would just creep back like allergies by calling again; besides, there was only a few minutes left on the brownie timer and a full five days to plan.

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><p>The song in Alfred's voicemail is <em>Never Gonna Give You Up<em> by Rick Astley.

Search 'Lady Gaga and Matthew Williams' if you don't understand the Gaga love note joke.

This story will have a cover! Soon. Whenever my super, fantastical, awesome, annoying, cool sister finishes it. =D (It is already more than half way done, so hopefully no more than a week.)

**And if there is anything specific you wish for Romano and Canada to do (other than each other) feel free to request. :D Examples can range from visiting specific sites in or around Ottawa to making sleds out of cardboard. (too bad there will be no snow) I'm not afraid to research.**


	8. Wait What Happens Next?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia nor anything I reference  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>vulgar humor, language, language, language (this is a damn Romano chapter)

Otter: Say it. The readers are looking. :s  
>Lovino: Fuck no. :  
>Matthew: Please say it, Lovi? *puppy eyes* OuO<br>Lovino: *mutters* .  
>Otter: I can't hear you~ ;D<br>Lovino: THANK YOU! Are you happy, bitches?! U:  
>Matthew: Don't take that offensively... Lovino is just happy that people are taking an interest in a story about him. c:<br>Lovino: Bleh! e.e

**Translations:  
><strong>_Italian:  
><em>Italia Meridionale - Southern Italy  
><em>French:<br>_Non - Squid tentacles

**Note:** I am a bad date. I never show up when expected and I never call about the time for the next chapter... **I am sorry that updating has been deteriorating like a radioactive isotope and I would like to thank you all for being patient saints. c:0**

Enjoy~

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><p>Chapter IIIIII: <em>Wait. What Happens Next?<em>

God damn why can women get pregnant? If it wasn't for no protection having a fetus leeching away her nutrients and oxygen, then Lovino wouldn't have felt obligated as a healthy, young male to give up his luxurious first class seat with all its leg and elbow room for her. No, it wasn't her fault that Lovino was currently getting his seat kicked in the animal pen styled -crampedness, smelliness, and loudness included- monkey-seats at the very back of the economy section of the plane with its ADHD passengers flushing the toilet every five minutes. It was his governmental plane's fault. Supposedly, it is currently getting the tires rotated. Pfft. Lovino has heard better lies come from a polygraph. Preggers better be enjoying her shrimp cocktails behind that curtain. And the Fuckface Family with the oblivious parents and kangaroo kid seated behind him better be praying airport security is so tight.

After crossing the whole Atlantic and most of Quebec with some young teenager pathetically texting away her social life for the whole world to not care about to his right, the pilot finally announced that their agonizing nine hour direct flight from Naples, Italy to Ottawa, Canada will be concluding in half an hour. Also, he politely demantioned (demanding something in a mentioning way) that everyone should park their asses in one spot and shut off their fucking phones. Lovino kind of liked this pilot; he wasn't afraid to cuss out his passengers. Yet, the finger-slasher and ADHDumbass continued to piss him off.

Several songs later from his CD, (Yes, Lovino is old-school like that and still carries CDs with various songs burned to it around. Insult him on it and their sharp edges will be used to slice something of yours off.) a beautiful aerial view of Ottawa, and only seven seat kicks from frog-legs later, the promising freedom of bumps and popping ears told the Italian that he was now on Canadian soil.

With everyone grabbing their carry-ons and mobbing the exit, Lovino had several minutes of idleness to just stare out the window onto the airport buildings and think about what was going to happen the next few days. He knew this first day was dedicated to meeting the Canadian Prime Minister and other governmental officials to give off that iota of business instead of just two men having a very manly sleepover. Aside from exchanging pleasures and handshakes, Lovino was in a dark darker than the darkest darkroom. But that room is black because Lovino has yet to replace the two year old dead bulb. These shadows spewed from the brunette's lack of social interactions can't be fixed by a mere twisting action on a glass cylinder.

Only Matthew can find the remedy.

"Wow!" A high-pitched voice behind him stabbed, "You must be retarded because I have kicked you 557 times and you haven't even noticed!"

Kangaroo kid has been counting. The bucked-tooth little shit has been counting the number of times his CD player has been jostled from his lap. This calls for a revenge that will be remembered; screw the simple, easily forgettable 'go fuck yourself' Lovino was pinning to tell the bastard.

With the narrow isle up to the plane's exit cleared and not an ounce of regret, Lovino grabbed his small carryon from under the seat and prepared his voice for the best New York accent he could fabricate on the dime.

"Ciao, Vito," Lovino casually began into his turned-off phone. "Listen, I's got a little problem. This little shit of a kid has really been pissing me off. He's," Lovino took a quick glance at the wide-eyed child behind him, "brown haired and wearin' a blue polo shirt. So mind doing a little... icing of his ass with that shiny AR you's got? ... Grazie, Vito! And remember, two bullets. He's so fucking ADD it'll take two to subdue. And knock the fat fucks he calls parents off as well. For not controlling their kid. See ya tonigh' and I expect a good story."

He 'hung up' the phone and proudly made his way up the isle to meet with Matthew, not needing to look behind at the traumatized fearing-for-their-spleens family. The three sets of stares pounding his back told him enough: never fuck with Italia Meridionale.

Few people, it was off-season for travel, moseyed around the airport, some softly smiling at anyone they passed in hopes of brightening their day just a smidge while others passed without a care to the soul on their flanks. Lovino was one of those indifferents; his mind solely focused on locating the little sliver of white paper labeled 'Lovino Vargas' in black type and stamped with a green, white, and red rectangle.

Lovino took his eyes off of the horizon, internally grumbling about Matthew being late, to raise an eyebrow at the airport's choice of carpet. It was quiet lovely. Like the underside of a shower drain. With a few shakes of the head, Lovino returned to people watching, a bad habit (who honestly likes being secretly watched?) he picked up from not being the most social person. But not wanting to be alone. What caught his eye was a mother and her young son near the windows. The mother, sandy-blonde hair escaping its band prison, was using a wipe to wash something off the chubby cheek of the child who was pouting at the action. Lovino thought to himself, remembering the times when the affectionate woman was Antonio and the pouting child was Lovnio. Or when he was the one wiping tomato sauce from Feliciano's face.

He also thought of the one time Grandpa Rome, smiling the entire time, washed ink off his nose after he fell asleep on the wet parchment during a language lesson.

But the bastard was only smiling because he could then send _Romano_ away to sleep...

Sharply so a knot formed in his neck, Lovino brought his gaze that had sunk to the ugly floor back up to the beautiful, small family ahead. He thought of Antonio and Feliciano when he was looking at the woman and child; Grandpa Rome when it was the carpet. And he was on a half-vacation, damn it, and was going to have a good time.

Lovino's brain was too focused to feel the nerves in his mouth forming a small smile or the vibrations in his ears translating some type of nearby noise. That is, until that nearby noise turned into a shooting whistle that tore through his eardrums. Lovino, somewhat wooden from being in one position for so long, frowningly glanced around himself to find the perpetrator. He swore if it was Kangaroo Shit...

"Sorry to do that, Lovino..." a voice he immediately categorized as Matthew's announced.

_Fuck, I can't out-right bitch at Mateo for shattering my hearing... too much_, Lovino thought to himself as he rubbed his left ear and pivoted in the same direction to face his host. "The hell was that for?" he greeted, noting that Matthew's face was dusted with the same color as his red sweater. Lovino just choked it up to embarrassment, pointedly ignoring the fact that there was nothing embarrassing about him just staring at a family.

Shaking his head, Matthew explained, "When Alfred starts talking too loud, I use it to regain his attention... and you were talking too loud in your head."

"Don't you dare compare me to your damn brother." Despite the biting words, Lovino's smirk told Matthew he was jesting. Besides, the both of them have already ripped on their siblings so much that is obvious they care about the remaining shreds. Funny how the world can work like that.

The both of them began to catch up on the few weeks they were apart. Apparently, Kumayaoi no longer had a cold and stopped getting snot all over the furniture. But it mostly consisted of Lovino detailing the horrendous tendencies of wild animals in economy seating with Matthew smiling and adding his own witty commentary accordingly. Especially during the prank rendition, which judging by the way Matthew grasped his midsection, an excellent spit-take could have been preformed had he been drinking something. "I-I wish. Recording. Haha! Next time, record."

Pounding his friend on the back and ignoring the weird stares they were getting, "There won't be a recording because your pale ass would joining in."

Being a nation did have its perks when traveling, mostly when the fucking plane actually worked. Instead of waiting for his turn to answer useless questions and present identification, all Lovino had to do was use Matthew's blonde head as a key to customs. The Canadian showed the slight woman behind the counter his governmental identification and quickly explained that Lovino was his guest. No extra action was necessary. It was obvious in her eyes that she wished to know more, but that wasn't her job. Her job was to give the nod, a lone hair strand escaping her immaculate bun, for the duo to trudge ahead and Matthew quickly thanked her for not causing a scene.

Lovino just nodded; frankly, her hawk eyes questioning every taken step crept him out. She was judging him and Lovino did not like that, has had a past filled with it. He was highly grateful that Matthew's eyes were softer...

Once they were at the international baggage claim lines, some teenagers riding the empty one next door and walloping in the air until airport security arrived, Matthew suddenly exclaimed an 'oh' and reached into his back pocket. Lovino curiosity watched, not Matthew's ass thank you, but him pulling out a folded sheet of paper. After, he offered to wad to Lovino as if a dead tree would interest him.

He took the paper and started to open it, yet couldn't resist the stupidity of asking what was inside it beforehand. Yanking the two final sides apart, the Italian found that sliver of white he was searching for earlier exactly how he expected it to look. Except, instead of a rectangle, it was what looked like a self-drawn oval... an oval-circle with a stem coming out of it. "Why is there an apple on here?" Lovino asked Matthew's pouting face.

Slightly put off, "It's a tomato. Does it really look like an apple?" Matthew stated, peeking at his earlier drawing over Lovino's shoulder.

"A tom-! Nevermind, stick to calligraphy." While the 'tomato' (It was a fucking apple.) was a disappointment, his name was beautifully written in old French-style loops. It really looked like effort was put into it instead of pushing a few keys and hitting print. He could picture Matthew at some desk whipping his wrists around to get those curls just right while erasing any wayward marks. Perhaps he was also poking his tongue out between his lips -allowing the pink stub a small breath of air- like he does when he is taking serious notes at a world conference. The ideas warmed Lovino's soul, and he refolded the small poster and, carefully, slid it into his bag.

When a thankful glance was sent back to Matthew it was received by the back of the blonde's head. He was effortlessly lugging Lovino's rather large bag, how he knew it was his was kind of disturbing, over the claim line in front of Lovino with a thump. He had trouble lifting that fat box more than a meter yet Matthew made it look as easy as making morning cereal.

Fucking North Americans.

Before Lovino could ask how he knew this completely average, black thing was his luggage, Matthew beat him to it as if the blonde read the brunette's mind. Matthew pulled at the decorative, beige tag and flashed the back side of it that was covered in a dark brown 'aged' text to Lovino. "Sorry if I'm wrong, but not many Canadian bags have tags with Italian on them... What does it mean?"

Lovino just stared at the familiar letters and snorted. The tag was a gag gift from him to Feliciano, but since his brother regifted it at Easter time by securely sewing the tag onto his bag, it was permanently his now. "Sono molteplici talenti: io posso parlare e farti incazzare allo stesso tempo. I'm multi-talented: I can talk and piss you off at the same time."

With a small, amused grin, Matthew countered, "How appropriate."

It doesn't matter if it can be true; Lovino still wacked him upside the head and started to speed ahead into the Fall weather outside. "For that remark you are carrying that!"

He was a guest here in Canada and he was going to take full advantage of that.

.-.-.-.

Sprawled out on the guest bed Matthew gave him, still clad in his silky dress shirt-vest combo and slacks, Lovino lulled in that realm right before sleep when one's mind is the most active but the body is the most lazy. He didn't have the energy to remove his sure to be wrinkled silk shirt, his restrictive shiny shoes, nor his thin stiff belt. The previous events leading up to this crash popped through his head like the memories were kernels and the inside of his mind was a microwave.

Going outside the airport and almost freezing his ass off.

Matthew laughed at the scene in his thin sweater.

A rusty red pick up truck that was lucky to be moving drove the two of them towards Matthew's house.

The radio was playing some shitty American pop song

Turning the radio off and Matthew put one of his personal CDs in the ancient stereo.

Music wasn't bad... something by a trench?

Scenery outside was pretty with the changing leaves.

Matthew beamed after he hinted this.

Canadians go the speed limit.

Matthew didn't really have a what is considered a nowadays house, it was more like a modern log cabin.

He had a huge yard... and a small lake in the back yard.

And a grove of maple trees with a flower garden in the front.

Cabin-like house was warm and inviting.

Mounted deer antlers weren't as much.

Kumass growled at him upon entering the nicely furnished kitchen.

Jetlag started to kick in.

Telling Matthew that he was fine.

Freshening up for the evening.

Sneaking peeks at Matthew in a fitted suit.

Seeing Parliament Hill.

Petting lots of cats running around.

Meeting the Prime Minister and a few selected others.

Having the expected business dinner.

Almost falling asleep during that dinner.

Matthew making some excuse to end the meeting prematurely.

Returning to the house.

Lovino fell asleep.

Upon his consciousness returning, Lovino smelled something good cooking. For once, Feli wasn't making pasta and that will be a nice change. The sunlight was glaring through the wrong side of the room... Lovino sprouted up, feeling uncomfortable in the foreign bed and impersonal room, and hoped he didn't drink too much last night. After blinking once, the Italian remembered where he was. And who he was with. Muttering to himself, "Shit. My first day here and I sleep through it." He rubbed at his blearily eyes, fully examining the room he was too busy crashing in to look at earlier.

It was a typical guest room: a soft bed in the center, a nightstand sitting beside it, a dresser for storing stuff, own bathroom. Feli's and his back in Rome was similar, and it was because of the emptiness that both these rooms emitted that Lovino kept that door shut back home. Canada's living room had bear hairs on the sofa. This bed didn't even have a wrinkle... before he flounced on it. There were pictures since the camera was invented up till at least earlier this year on the hallway walls leading to this room, yet those halt once this barren place was entered, leaving only some random photograph of a vineyard for a try at color.

It wasn't the room's fault nor Matthew's. This wasn't a regularly used room, but it was safe to say: Lovino did not want to spend anymore time in here than necessary and would have to throw some of his clothes around to add personality.

After sending his brother a text that he safely made it into Canada and checking the time, the earlier scent came back even stronger. Lovino knew what they were but couldn't think of the English word at the moment. He changed into less wrinkly attire, checking himself in the mirror to make sure everything looked fine and running a hand through his disheveled hair... _Why the hell does it matter? Mateo can suck it up._

Boldly, Lovino, automatically closing the door behind him, followed his nose into the kitchen, a location he remembered from the previous day, to see a stack of... pancakes! That is what they are. On the kitchen table along with a small vase of daffodils, orange juice, two plates, and cutlery. It was fancier than any breakfast Lovino has had recently; he usually slept in till the last possible moment and grabbed a piece of fruit on his way out to general business meetings.

Matthew was at a griddle, putting it away in a box, and facing towards the kitchen entrance so he saw Lovino come in. "Moring Lovino, feel any better?"

Even though they've become quite close (or, reclose) in such a short amount of time, Lovino couldn't help the apprehension from seeping into his blood and flowing to every action he took. It was the house. Yeah. "Si, err, yes. Jetlag is just a cockblocker." He took a seat at the mahogany table an inquired if Matthew wanted help.

"Non, I'm almost done anyway." He tucked the griddle box into one of the cupboards, grabbed a bottle from the same space, and sat across from Lovino at the table, setting the bottle of maple syrup -of course- next to the pancakes. "I think Colin really liked you."

Lovino helped himself to the pancakes, his stomach was saying 'feed now, bastard' as he slept through last night's dinner. Lovino hoped that Matthew wasn't too lonely... or heard him sleep talk. Pouring some of the brown condiment over the small stack, "Who?"

Matthew just sighed. "You should have told me you were too tired to meet my Prime Minister. Remember Mr. Mochrie?"

Lovino just grunted at the first statement. Starting off the day with a petty argument won't help anything. But in his mind, Lovino could have easily handled staying up. He has pulled countless all-nighters and even two-nighters or three-nighters. Matthew didn't have to snub his government over Lovino's sleep. "He's funny." And when Lovino said someone was funny, it meant that they really were. It was hard to get him to truly laugh. Snort and scoff, sure. But laugh...

"You don't think this is too much maple syrup, do you?" Matthew asked, a playful expression adorning his face.

With the first forkful of food nearly making it to his mouth, Lovino glanced at Matthew's plate to see that he was eating maple syrup with a side of pancakes, spoon at the ready.

And laughed.

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><p><strong>Awesome Assembled:<strong>

_Canada'sLittleMapleLover13__:_ ... Can someone call a paramedic? Thank you for the review!

_iivogelchen__:_ Hope you enjoyed the hanging out c: Mattie is one of the easily pair-able nations because of his kind personality and ability to adapt/deal with different personalities. Grazie for the review~

_luna-music inc_: Tak for the idea and review^^

_Thing2BK__:_ Tray-bogganing... great, now my bucket list is even longer. ;~; Been googling Vieux, and it looks amazing. OuO. Merci for the review~

_Mew I is Dinosaur__:_ Nah, it was Alfie who Rick Rolled everyone. ;) Pudding... Don't know what is so funny 'bout that word. Gracias for the review!

_tmmdeathwishraven__:_ That would be such a fluffy scene. *o* And embrace your hyperness. Embrace it! Danke for the review!

_xXIceXxShatteredXx__:_ Hehe, sorry you had to wait so long but I hope your insides' throats have gone raw. c: And I love you (don't take it the wrong way ;D) for reviewing! Xie xie.

**Post Note: **After this chapter I am going to start PMing people their thanks so the word count of the story is less screwy.

With the spacing of everything and the smaller details I add... trying to fit a part of the actual 'vacation' part would make the length funky... sorry for the cockblocking. :P

I did not use the name of the real Prime Minister of Canada for whatever legal purposes there may be. So the name I chose is COMPLETLY random and does not matter. C:


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